Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. ‘I only wish I might have won her confidence. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. 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. Which is the nearest way to the river?" "Why, it's an awkward road to direct you," returned Jonathan. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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