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. She had reason enough to be grateful to Prudence Sindlesham and it was not fair that this horrible feeling of loneliness should be made known to her. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. It rather astonished him. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone.
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