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' It is signed JACK SHEPPARD. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. Mr. Bullding repeated, rather struck with the phrase.
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