Then he sensed the trap. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page. Where was the message? Where was Gerald? Until he came back, what was there for her to do? Eh bien, it made no sense to do anything. She began to act. His literary instincts were reviving. "How are you off there, Shoplatch?" inquired Kneebone.
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