of like, one seventy-five or something?” She looked at Michelle with worry. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. ‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. I am sure. Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. 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. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark.
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