The woman I wanted was another man's wife. 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. She knew now that he never would. CHAPTER II. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance.
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