Then, in a few years, he and Ruth might fare forth in comfort and security. She leaned back in her chair. 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. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Husbands and wives, young lovers, and mothers with strollers thronged in the streets, all savoring the fine cool weather.
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