"What of her?" exclaimed Jack, starting up. ‘One does not blow off the head of a man with whom one is in love, en effet. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. 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. He stood transfixed.
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