He doesn't resemble you at all. You never saw him before yesterday. On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. “But your hair,” he gasped. “But of course it’s aunt’s doing really. I'll tell you what. ‘What a catalogue. 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.
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