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. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. "He knows he had to take it. “I say, daddy,” she began, and was suddenly short of breath. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness.
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