’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. “Julian, please wait. \" Lucy obliged her, walking back to the entryway and slipping off the loafers. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. 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. “Tut, tut!” he said.
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