It was one of the many commuters' villages strung out for
fifty miles along the railroad lines radiating from New Belfast, and
depended for its support upon a population scattered over a five-mile
radius at estates and country homes. Obviously a planned community, it
was dominated by a gray-walled, green-roofed railroad station which stood
on its passenger-platform like a captain in front of four platoons of
gray-walled, green-roofed houses and stores aligned along as many
converging roads. There was a post office, uniform with the rest of the
buildings; an excessive quantity of aluminum trimming dated it somewhere
in the middle Andrew W. Mellon period. There were four gas stations, a
movie theater, and a Woolworth store with a red front that made it look
like some painted hussy who had wandered into a Quaker Meeting.
Over the door of one of the smaller stores, Rand saw a black-lettered
white sign: _Antiques_. There was a smoke-gray Plymouth coupe parked in
front of it.
Instead of turning onto the road to the Fleming estate, he continued
along Route 19 for a mile or so beyond the village, until he came to a
red brick pseudo-Colonial house on the right. He pulled to the side of
the road and got out, turning up the collar of his trench coat.
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