The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. 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. Recurrently she heard: "I don't know; I really don't know.
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