‘But of course. 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. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. That would be an unkind twist of fate. I am clear I want you.
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