Little by little, she stopped hating him. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. 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. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors.
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