The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. He had put himself before the threshold of damnation; for Ruth was now a vestal in the temple. "Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop.
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