In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. It is only a matter of time before he presents himself to whoever has the deeds to Remenham House—a lawyer I presume—and claims that property for his wife’s. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever. The door opened. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. The gallows has groaned for him for years.
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