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 Jacobite. He declined supper, but took wine. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt. “You are very good,” she said.
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