She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted. 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. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. The Chinamen raised the limp body and carried it to the hall staircase, up which they mounted laboriously.
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