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. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive. Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary.
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