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. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. Diable. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. She wrote it down. Probably a sick man's whim. “Tiffany’s?” He looked at her comically. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm. Divide the money between you, and wear the ornaments for my sake. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith.
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