The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. Then they rode off at speed. “You are persuaded to come and take part in these outrageous proceedings— many of you, I am convinced, have no idea whatever of their nature. ” “Not long ago,” she said, “you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. 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.
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