He had, however, planned brilliant careers for his two sons, and, with a certain human amount of warping and delay, they were pursuing these. “You!” said Ann Veronica. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. 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.
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