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... memory, whether it was the distant, relatively shallow clouds or the sleek stone walls beside him, washed by the rain.
Well, perhaps it was Lyle’s illusion; nothing in Cassandra had changed.
At best, it was only under Mr. Ralph’s influence that everything seemed much brighter.
When dawn was yet to come, and he had just been teleported back from Andrey’s place, lying in bed for less than twenty minutes, his cheap uncle Ralph knocked on Lyle’s door. The shadow under the hat ...
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