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. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. ‘Not from the nuns, no. —'We'll do it,' said they, filling their glasses, and looking as fierce as King George's grenadier guards; 'here's your health, Mint.
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