‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it. 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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