Her head ached with a hollow pain. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. 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. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. It is now a point of view, differing widely, as the ignorant man differs from the educated.
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