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. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. She felt she was bound in honor to tell the whole affair to Manning sooner or later. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. Insulting cries became frequent and various, but for the most part she could not understand what was said. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. Her senses were prickled when she felt a new pair of eyes upon her. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. ‘Jacques, do not die while I am gone. They then swiftly mounted the stairs, and stopped before the audience-chamber. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away.
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