In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. She cried and sobbed in fits. 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. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. She had all the fascination of being absolutely perplexing in this respect.
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