“I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. 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. "I can, and will. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard.
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