‘Melusine…Melusine. And the woollen-draper departed. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically. 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. Their minds are turned against him.
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