She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. ’ He bowed slightly, and indicated the house behind them with a wave of his hand. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. 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. And life is much the same, whether taken in battle, on the couch, or by the road-side. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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