I wonder ——” “London is a huge place,” Brendon said. —'How so?' says I. 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. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. Horrible doubts assailed her. She pulled her chair with a mild creak and marched towards the stair. Just a friendly polite suggestion. Giles's round-house. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. “I am bored,” she said abruptly.
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