They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Presently she saw Spurlock on the way to the lagoon. ‘This is not love, Marthe. ‘Come,’ she called.
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