The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. “I do want you.
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