She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. And then suddenly—a relief. “That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. F. ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. ’ ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
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