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’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. S. . ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog.
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