
The rain had stopped outside. Dawn was forthcoming.
— Haiti?
— Haiti.
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He stepped into the smoking compartment of the Pullman, where I was sitting alone.
He had on a long fur-lined coat, and he carried a fifty-dollar suit case that he put down on the seat.
Then he saw me.
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It was autumn in London, that blessed season between the harshness of winter and the insincerities of summer; a trustful season when one buys bulbs and sees to the registration of one’s vote, believing perpetually in spring and a change of Government.
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It was underground.
In that dank cavern down below Belgrave Square the walls were dripping. But what was that to the magician? It was secrecy that he needed, not dryness. There he pondered upon the trend of events, shaped destinies and concocted magical brews.
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I was waiting for my coke dealer in a beautiful park in Timișoara when a man jumped from a nearby bush and took a seat right next to me on the bench.
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Barack Obama visited the awe-inspiring Parthenon in Athens recently, one of the greatest monuments of the ancient world still standing today, and he was awe-inspired all right.
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