The evenings were dulcet and soft. Had Valade been to see him? Possibly even yesterday when he was followed by some young lad—and the girl, of course. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. 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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