If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. “I’ll get dressed. 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. "Why shouldn't a Chinaman be honest? Ah, yes; I know. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. ” “It is an accident,” he answered.
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