" "Farewell, Jack," cried twenty voices. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. 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. She was the type that people of every age gravitated to, naturally affable and kind to everyone. She still kicked herself for it. Independently of other risks, and of the chance of breaking his neck in the descent, he was aware that to reach the leads he should have to break open six of the strongest doors of the prison. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. It is not a dissipated face. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment.
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