He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. 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. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest.
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