He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. 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. I'm not particular what or where. Hoddy. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears.
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