"What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. 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. And while her son was reconveyed to prison the body of the unfortunate Mrs.
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