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Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. Her steps slowed. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. But he knew. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. Kneebone, are these your French noblemen?" "Don't upbraid me!" rejoined the woollen-draper.
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