‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. 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. Ann Veronica tried to keep hold of a complicated situation and not lose her head.
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