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. ’ Roding’s voice changed. "I suppose he'll be on his feet any day now. Hope reared. By the will of Mr. . . "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. The couple reappeared from behind the curtains, both visibly shaken. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times.
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