His brain reeled. 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. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother.
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