"I can," replied Trenchard. You don’t understand. ” She leaned back amongst the cushions of her chair. It's too hard. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. I thought that you were he. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. The intoxicating sense of novelty had given place to a more business-like mood. You are the woman I love, Anna. 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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