I somehow understood. " No sooner had Wood crept through the window, than nature gave way, and he fainted. 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. Her fingers rested upon his. Some trustworthy Chinaman to watch, for a small bribe, while he, James Boyle O'Higgins, enjoyed himself in Hong-Kong, seeing the spring races, the boxing matches, and hobnobbing with Yankee sailors. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. .
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