But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. “There’s no one here except me. 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. Even if he were an old friend, you couldn't afford to do it.
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