The main street of Clinton is not a lovely street; the inland villages
and towns of Glebeshire are, unless you love them, amongst the ugliest
things in England, but every step caught at Seymour's heart.
There was Mr. Roscoe's shop which was also the post-office, and in its
window was the same collection of liquorice sticks, saffron buns, reels
of cotton, a coloured picture of the royal family, views of Trezent
Head, Borhaze Beach, St. Arthe Church, cotton blouses made apparently
for dolls, so minute were they, three books, "Ben Hur," "The Wide, Wide
World," and "St. Elmo," two bottles of sweets, some eau-de-Cologne, and
a large white card with bone buttons on it. So moving was this
collection to Seymour that he stared at the window as though he were in
a trance.
The arrangement of the articles was exactly the same as it had been in
the earlier days--the royal family in the middle, supported by the jars
of sweets; the three books, very dusty and faded, in the very front; and
the bootlaces and liquorice sticks all mixed together as though Mr.
Roscoe had forgotten which was which.
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