John eased off. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. “Your best route will be via Boulogne and Folkestone at nine o’clock from the Gare du Nord. ‘That little kiss cost him his sanctuary, my girl, and don’t you forget it.
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