He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had. “He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident.
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