“I’m not going to kill you, John. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. 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.
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