Shortly afterwards,—it seemed an age to the anxious mother,—Mr. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. 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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