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Roman appeared with two mugs, one pitch-black and the other clearly half-filled with cream. He gave the lighter mug to Curran. “Drinking yours black, I see,” I told him. He shrugged and sat on the couch. “Eh . . . goes with the job. So what can I do for you?” “We’re getting married,” I said. “I know. Congratulations. On Ivan Kupala night. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it’s brave.
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