First, it is all close
huddle with both. Austere iron railings guard the subterranean kitchen
areas, and austere looks indicate a desire on the part of the passengers to
guard their own pockets; gradually little gardens usurp the places of the
cramped areas, and, with their humanizing appearance, softer looks assume
the place of frowning _anti_ swell-mob ones.
Presently a glimpse of green country or of distant hills may be caught
between the wider spaces of the houses, and frequent settings down increase
the space between the passengers; gradually conservatories appear and
conversation strikes up; then come the exclusiveness of villas, some
detached and others running out at last into real pure green fields studded
with trees and picturesque pot-houses, before one of which latter a sudden
wheel round and a jerk announces the journey done. The last passenger (if
there is one) is then unceremoniously turned loose upon the country.
Our readers will have the kindness to suppose our hero, Mr. Sponge, shot
out of an omnibus at the sign of the Cat and Compasses, in the full
rurality of grass country, sprinkled with fallows and turnip-fields.
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