The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child.
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