“There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. ’ Pierced to the heart by the poignancy of this utterance, Gerald could neither move nor speak. “The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeeded. 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.
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