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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. He made a note of the idea and stored it away. “You don’t waste any time. Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured. She addressed Anna with a beaming smile and a very creditable mixture of condescension and officiousness.
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