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. His little doll. Most of the tables were for those who smoked only and drank wine, but there were a few spread with tablecloths and laid for dinner. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup. Jack's body was caught, and passed from hand to hand over a thousand heads, till it was far from the fatal tree. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, I swear it. .
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