He glanced at his watch. But one thing troubled him, and because of it he might never arrive on the beach. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. I’ll mention it. ‘Let’s see now. ’ ‘I know,’ he said, smiling. 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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