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. It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent. “Martin, you realize that I’m dating someone, don’t you?” She knew his reply before he uttered it.
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