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. None presented themselves to save him from that return. Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven.
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