Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. “You ask me to be engaged to you, Mr. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. 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. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you.
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