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. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. That can be very useful, that. He knew she would be there, practicing alone in 118. I have always been lonely.
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