Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. It was a large room, about twenty feet long and fifteen broad, and had an arched stone roof. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way of yawning when she awoke. She asked no further questions for the moment. There are cigarettes and magazines in the corner there.
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