The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. His inclinations prompted him most decidedly to take the vacant chair. It was not for a week or a month. As for the patient, his decision was immediate. It was time to leave America. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous. She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall.
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