’ At a quarter past eleven I returned here with this gentleman, Mr. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world. 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. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly.
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