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. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. The reward is mine.
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