“What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. 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’re splendid!” said Teddy, with his hair wild in the wind. She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light. But she was only able to save a corner of the letter.
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