“How far to Breckonridge? A mile, maybe—but you get the tram at the corner.”
She stared. She would have questioned him again, but the throng of people pressed her forward.
A tram through the village? ... queer! ... not that it mattered to her ... she would take the old short cut through the fields outside the station yard.... There was a stile ... and a wild cherry tree....
She left the yard, the unfamiliar yard with asphalt and motors and a great iron bridge, crossed the road, and stopped bewildered.
There were no fields.
‘Station Road.’ The labelled yellow villas were like a row of faces. Eyes, nose, mouth—windows, porch, steps—steps like teeth. They grinned.
In a sort of panic she ran past them down the road, a lumbering, clumsy woman. She trod on her skirt, and recovered herself with difficulty. She heard a small boy laugh and call after her. She clambered on to the tram.
“I want to go to the village—to Breckonridge——”
“It’s all Breckonridge. ’Ow far?”
She stared.