There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. “Gross. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. ” Well, it was beyond dispute that these words did convey a certain quality of the Movements in general amid which Miss Miniver disported herself. I've been thinking about it ever since morning. Prudence attacked her chicken wing. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte.
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