I won’t try. Chairs were overturned. 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. The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad.
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