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. The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. Cased and ribbed with stone, and braced with horizontal beams of timber, the piles, which formed the foundation of these jetties, had resisted the strong encroachments of the current for centuries. . ’ ‘Good.
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