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. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. Leastways, not on your own. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. ” Brendon reappeared, followed by a tall thin man with a stubbly brown moustache and restless grey eyes. Anna raised her eyes. ‘And how is it that you have acquired this garb of a religieuse?’ he asked as she fitted the veil over her head.
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