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I am on my way to an aunt who lives in Hartford, Connecticut. The crash was tremendous. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. It ought not to be much. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. ‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front.
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