She had narrowly escaped Martin in Orchestra class, who had been wrapped up discussing a new piece of his with Mr. I had gone further than I meant to—with some Englishmen. A little darling? Lord in heaven, he had taken leave of his senses. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. Or did he? Perhaps he had found another. 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. For your information, it was paradise there. Gregory B.
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