It'll be your turn to save mine next. 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 now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. But at the word “home” she turned again. “Some day,” she answered. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am.
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