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No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. “With your permission,” he said to Anna, “I shall arrange a bed for him where he is. I don’t know. ’ Jack Kimble took a deep breath. I can never be grateful enough. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. Three short days.
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