He was tender with her as he had not been in years. “I didn’t blow up the house. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. You dear, dear girl. 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. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose.
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