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. A woman is supposed to know when a man is in love with her. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. She got hysterical. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration.
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