The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. This was what he missed. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying.
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