They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. "You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. 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.
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