Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. “Ugh!” she said. ‘Jacques,’ she said, turning to the lad, and holding the habit out, ‘take this for me and leave it in the passage where we have left the lantern. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy.
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