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. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. Think—think of that engagement!” Their talk had come to eloquent silences that contradicted all he had to say. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house.
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