He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door. “You had no right—” panted Ann Veronica. But it doesn’t alter the situation. 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. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. She had all the fascination of being absolutely perplexing in this respect.
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