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Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. The reply he received this time put him into a state of continuous bewilderment. The twenty pounds burned with avidity. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. . Walking to the station with him. .
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