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. “How well and jolly you must be feeling. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. They crossed the street, and entering the front door passed up the outside stone steps of the flat. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing.
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