Le Mercier and Stowe of St. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. But he tells them that I am a spy. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered.
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