The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. Upon this young fellow's face there were no wrinkles, only shadows, in the hollows of the cheeks and under the eyes. I didn’t go out of my way or anything. 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. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. They all stay!” “And you yourself?” Brendon laughed. She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans.
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