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. " "Be pacified, sweet soul," said Wood, looking meaningly at Thames; "you shall go, and I will accompany you. Death belongs to God, young man. As Jack conjectured, no one was there, and, though a lamp was burning on a stand, they decided upon proceeding without it.
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