It was a dreary, drizzling day, but the bright gypsy caravans were encamped again on Epsom Downs. Carousels tinkled. Hawkers, pickpockets and bookies plied their trades among a milling crowd of 100,000.
Along the twisting horse-&-buggy roads through London's suburbs, sleek patrician Bentleys elbowed war-weary jalopies aside oh the way to the track. Charabancs full of cheering trippers from Clapham Common and Edgeware overtook lumbering six-horsed coaches complete with liveried postilions and grey-toppered gentry.
"Let me read your fortune," whined an old gypsy woman at the grandstand where bunting fluttered and only a patch of bright new brick, where a bomb had...
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