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 am calm—quite calm, Rowland," she answered, with lips whose agitation belied her words. "Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began.
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