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. Like the flaws of an old marble. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. . Others pulled hats over their noses, cowered in their seats, and feigned that all was right with the world. “You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience hold families together after adolescence.
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