F. “No!” Her thoughts had turned in a new direction. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. There’s no logic in these things. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church.
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