“You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. Sir John once more looked around him. Wood. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. 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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