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 is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. Spit of your mother. How the devil did you break a picture?’ ‘Don’t be obtuse, Hilary.
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