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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. “I feel justified then,” he said, “in annexing his chair. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. Save my seat.
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