’ Jack blinked at her. 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. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. To surrender himself to the law, to face trial and imprisonment, was out of the question. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile.
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