“Julian, please, let’s go to your place. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. “So far you’ve got me and I you. 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. ‘But it is entirely natural that I choose my own country. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. .
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