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She felt, suddenly, that she was being watched, and she turned to look at the queue zigzagging behind her, certain that she was about to find Magnus’s face among the strangers: the puff of white hair, the pale, Celtic eyes. He’d tracked her for decades now, popping up at weak points like this, glimpsed before vanishing. It would almost be odd if he
... See moreLucy Atkins • Windmill Hill
The Ocean Liner
