"What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window. 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 was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said.
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