The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. ‘For my part, I am in no hurry to end this exciting little adventure. 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. "Nothin'—nothin'," returned Blueskin; "only I thought—" "You saw the hangman, no doubt," said Jack.
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