There were three exit doors. Grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and aunts … to love and to coddle lonely little girls. We mustn’t make it so. ‘Please to sit, monsieur. It keeps dangling in front of my eyes. 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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