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The Office of Secrets
Hawthorn had just tucked into an egg. He had rapped it twice with a butterknife, peeled back the top, and ladled out a goey teaspoonful. Slowly, he daubed the yolk on some toast, peppered it, brought it to his mouth."Duane!'Hawthorn reluctantly lifted his eyes from the toast. Across the cafe, a beam...
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With the man’s every step, a flat note tolled. An iron bell bounced round his neck. Faces turned, startled, shuffled away. Stoat turned from the bar, stared, wrinkled her upturned nose. She leaned to her friend, a lass wrapped in silk. “Can’t believe they allow that, here.” “What?” said ...
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