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. He was all alone, too. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. He could not tell whether she was English or American. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTI5LjE5NS4xMTIgLSAwMS0wNi0yMDI0IDIyOjU5OjU5IC0gMjA4MDU0NTEyMg==
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