’ Total bullshit, if you ask me. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. The halls are on the lookout for something new.
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