“I corrected. “I’m not political enough for a presidential appointment. Where’d I tip my hand?” “Where didn’t you? Your choice of weapons, that history you concocted for yourself, your deportment in general. If I let go of your wrist, will you agree to keep that hand in plain sight?” I nodded. I’d considered throwing my drink in his face to distract him while I went for the scabbard, but I hated to waste good sipping whiskey. He released his grip, poured for himself, and sat down. “A careful way... of speaking and a veil of humility can’t obscure the habits of a lifetime,” he said. “This morning when you came to the church door, you glanced up and down the street and scanned the rooftops before you stepped outside. I doubt you were even aware you did it. A man who’s spent most of his life shut in with his mother feels no reason to take such precautions. Mind you, I suspected you before that. You have a whiff of brimstone about you. They haven’t developed a soap pious enough to scrub it off.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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