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. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me. "Amazement!" cried Wild. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. What ho! lights! lights!" And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs. Suddenly she became aware of the fact that he had brought no lunch. .
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