Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. 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. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. "I have not told you half. ‘Come on.
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