The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. "Many thanks, Sir," replied Thornhill, with freezing politeness; "but Id not require assistance. 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.
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