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He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. He shot at me at the ‘Unusual,’ and the magistrates bound him over to keep the peace. “Yes. She was weeping now. But escape to where? She thought of the ships that sailed from the peninsulas to hot deserts where spices were traded. I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out.
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