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Sanguine they were not. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. 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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