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That impressed me. The closest thing in America is street preachers and no-one stops. I walked the streets of London quite a bit. Visited museums and especially the British Museum and National Gallery. I went thru Trafalgar Square at least once and one time I was followed for a time by a man. I assumed he was looking for a pick-up. I don't remember much of Allison but upon leaving I never saw or heard from her again.
The American girl and I left London on Tuesday afternoon. The route was the same as last time, London to Folkstone and over to Dover. Made the last ferry by ten minutes. It went to Boulogne. Camped outside of Boulogne and continued on Wednesday morning. The route was Boulogne thru St. Omer, straight on thru Armentier, to Lille and Tournai, south east towards Mons.
She didn't last but two days. American girls sure must be soft. It probably was the place I chose to camp outside of Mons. I wanted no road-sight, and all I could find was this dirt road that went down a steep hill into a thickest of forest and a dead-end bottom. It was my insistence. She didn't have an opinion being right out of the hotel set and from New York or vicinity. I could feel her hesitation. I knew she didn't like it. It was a little creepy, like the heavy for-biding of foreboding. I thought of history.
What bad things could have happened there ? Seemed an unlikely spot, only a short bit down a tree-fused wooded mountain side. So I could understand her sudden flight. The ground of our lying was slanted not flat, and I in my sleeping bag woke a number of times having slid into her, she sleeping with her back to me - butt.
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