The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. “Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. 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. “It is a delightful day for walking, but a great deal too cold to be standing on the pavement.
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