‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. 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. “He wants me to have dinner at his parent’s house tonight,” still looking at a series of spots on the carpeting.
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