The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. The Widow and her Child II. 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. ‘I understand you have not been in England very long,’ he said in English, noting that Madame raised her fan and lowered her gaze demurely. “Absolutely,” the doctor answered, “and the sooner the better.
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