‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. 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. Altogether, it was a hideous and revolting sight. Be warned by your father's fate.
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