With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles.
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