Kneebone took his leave. ‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. “Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. That is why you came here, isn’t it?’ ‘Alors, now we know who is the spy, Monsieur Gérard. . Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool.
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