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. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. “I have a letter for you, and no end of messages. “A little nervous. ‘I think,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that it would be as well if you, Hilary, were to go and fetch the troops.
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