Lucy knocked again. 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. You deal with her. In a sense it alters nothing. “How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. "Allow me to assist you, Sir James," said Hogarth.
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