How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. At the farther end of the Lodge, the floor was raised to the height of a couple of steps; whence the whole place, with the exception of the remotest corner of the angle before-mentioned, could be commanded at a single glance. A deadly sickness came over her, the room seemed spinning round. 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. Happen what might, he could not be in a worse position.
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