Solomon Smith seemed to be Mr. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia. And here against a wall were the plumtrees. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares.
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