“In it lies the secret poison he used to turn you into an Oracle. Ennison, or any other young man. 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. ‘Do not say such things, you—you imbecile.
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