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. “Of course. Wood to a seat within it, immediately pushed from land. There was a black fear in his heart. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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