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. The unequal battle went on. It was impossible. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. “I say!” he said, without any movement. Ha!" exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded at no great distance along the thoroughfare, "not a moment is to be lost.
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