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 seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. She wished she had not stood up. Whoever this might be, the visit seemed to have some reference to the carpenter, for, shortly afterwards, Sharples made his appearance, and informed the captives they were free. ‘I have an arthritic complaint, which is why you find me retired from fashionable life. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him.
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