\"Today's Friday, isn't it?\" Lucy remembered. As soon as she reached this spot, Wild sprang ashore, and was joined by several persons, —among whom was Quilt Arnold, leading a horse by the bridle,—he hastened down the stairs to meet him. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. 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. He dressed rather after the fashion of the West End than the City, and affected a cultured urbanity that somehow disconcerted and always annoyed Ann Veronica’s father extremely. “Now listen. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four.
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