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 swear to you, it is the exact truth,’ he protested. White,” the lady in black satin remarked. There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. " "Not at fisticuffs, perhaps," interrupted Jack, fiercely; "but I've my knife.
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