“Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. 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. It had been removed from the scabbard by the Jew.
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