The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. This costume, though somewhat extravagant, displayed his slight, but perfectly-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage.
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