But what affair is this of yours?’ But Captain Roding was not attending. 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. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. “It was a phase,” she said.
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