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They are not alone, she sees. Here is David’s friend Clive. She always rather liked Clive. Sensed he liked her too. And here, standing beside Hanshaw’s news-stand, are two boys. Men, she supposes. Fighting age, but no more than eighteen. They look down at David, sprawled at their feet, one arm outstretched towards them, beseeching. Then, slack-jawed, they turn their faces towards her, as if she’s a mirage: blonde, petite, horn-rimmed spectacles, a grey two-piece, stilettos. The last person they’d expect to be brandishing a firearm. (From At the Stroke of Nine O'Clock by Jane Davis.)
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