But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. I believe I’m in love. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house. 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. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked.
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