Kneebone, Mrs. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. . . 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. Happily they had no one else to wait for, and it heartened her mightily to think that she had ordered the promptest possible service of the dinner.
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