I think too much about myself. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. 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. ’ There was a kind of aching hunger in Gerald’s gaze.
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