Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican.
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