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CHAPTER ONE
The Unexpected Guest
I have met people who enjoy a channel crossing; men who can sit calmly in their deckchairs and, on arrival, ( wait until the boat is moored, then gather their be-longings together without fuss and disembark. Per- i sonally, I can never manage this. From the moment I get ! on board I feel that the time is too short to setde down to anything. I move my suitcases from one spot to another, and if I go down to the saloon for a meal, I bolt my food with an uneasy feeUng that the boat may arrive unexpectedly whilst I am below. Perhaps all this is merely a legacy from one's short leaves in the war, when it seemed a matter of such importance to secure a place near the gangway, and to be amongst the first to disembark lest one should waste precious minutes of one's three or five days' leave.
On this particidar July morning, as I stood by the rail and watched the white cUffs of Dover drawing nearer, I marvelled at the passengers who could sit calmly in their chairs and never even raise their eyes for the first sight of their native land. Yet perhaps their case was different from mine. Doubtless many of them had only crossed to Paris for the weekend, whereas I had spent the last year and a half on a ranch in the Argentine. I had prospered there, and my wife and I had both enjoyed the free and easy life of the South American continent, nevei^theless it was with a lump in my throat that I watched the familiar l shore draw nearer and nearer.
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