She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. I don’t want you to talk to me now. 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. “And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. He reeled, and crashed to the floor.
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