” “That’s rather a fine sort of holiday!” He made no answer for three or four seconds. “He will probably make a statement to-night. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. 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.
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