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“I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. She regarded the young man coldly. Sir John felt and looked several years younger. 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. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her.
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