'—'They can't,' says I. 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. ’ Speeding down the two flights of stairs, Gerald mentally thanked God that it was the practice of himself and Roding—in case of emergency, of which this was a prime example—to stable their horses at the posting inns all the way to London. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. She answered him with another kiss, long and deep. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. But, here they are. She had heard the trader utter it many times.
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