"Not a moment is to be lost," cried Jack: "follow me. 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. Anna leaned back with half closed eyes. The theme was a masquerade.
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