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. “One hardly knows—all the time. ” 162 “Mmmm-hmmm. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years.
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