He turned to Ruth and McClintock. 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. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. From now on, you’re going to listen to me for a change.
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