And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. ” She took the blue box from her hoodie and held it towards him. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face. Anna leaned forward, watching the people in the streets.
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