" "Infernally provoking!" echoed Langley. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. 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. But first, we’ve got to secure the convent.
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