The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. She is not in the least like the descriptions of her. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. I’ve tried to use my authority. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp.
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