" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. To stumble upon the trail through the agency of a bottle of whisky! Drank queer; so his bottle had rendered him conspicuous.
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