McClintock, without comment, accepted the hand. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man. 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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