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. I was just like a sort of dummy that does things as it is told—that is to say, as the strings are pulled. The second is to somehow meet Lady Ferringhall.
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