" Mechanically raising the potion to her lips, the poor creature swallowed it without hesitation. She didn’t choose her man. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. Her mind left her. 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. " Blueskin nodded, and left the room. .
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