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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. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. ‘You imbecile. ’ ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ said the nun, evidently not mollified, but she was forestalled. The carte de jour was before Monsieur. If I’d known, there would have been a different story.
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