“I should like to understand you,” he said. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. 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. My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser. You see, the trouble is that the matter is in dispute. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. THAMES DARRELL.
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