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” John greeted him. ” She spat in his face. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. “Yes, I believe he is. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. ‘Sir?’ Hilary threw a brief glance at Trodger, and quickly returned his intent gaze to the Frenchman, who had halted once more, and stood as if thinking deeply. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence.
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