” “YOU know,” said Ann Veronica. 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. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. In rushed Mr. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away.
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