“Endless. I’ve no name for it yet. Fetter Lane, on the left, Gray's Inn, on the right, added their supplies. CHAPTER XXIII. “We won’t. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. 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. “It is from his brother in Paris.
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