She felt she must suffocate if these men did not put her down, and for a time they would not put her down. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. She screamed as she saw that their throats had been ripped out and their dead eyes bulged with horror as their heads lolled from mere strings of sinew and flesh. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. "I cannot remain here long.
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