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The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. 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. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover.
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