Excerpt from The Hands of Esau
Walton Herrick took the long way home. From the Northport station to Blake's Wood Road there were two routes. The greater part of one ran a rigidly straight mile and a half through the two lines of small stores and restaurants, gas stations and automobile agencies that were mush rooming haphazardly all along this part of Main Street. They formed a second, auxiliary shopping center for a town that had in the last ten years, as a result of the migration from New York, doubled its previously stable population of nine thousand. The other road that led home was a curving two-lane macadam, broken in many spots, blocked twice now by con struction that forced cars onto dirt detours for Short stretches - and covering in all, from the railroad station to Walton's home, some two and a quarter miles.
Yet Walton took the second, longer way home, partly because the road twisted and curved past white clapboard houses across whose fresh green lawns the wind-tossed feathery branches made Swooping, winking patterns of light and Shadow. The late spring sun buttered the willows; a small brook sparkled cold beside the road. Poking its nose between the weathered bars of a split rail fence, a Guernsey raised its vacantly contemplative gaze to the passing car.
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