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... rfaced in his mind one after another. To him, every single image was a piercing knife, winter’s icy crystals.
Deeply stabbing into his heart.
Every time he thought about it, it hurt once.
Carefully pressing the photo against his chest, Edward Benson’s face was pale, gradually exhaling breaths, with a broken sound escaping from the depths of his throat: "Isla... where are you?"
Over 8 p.m, Edward Benson staggered out of the study room.
He went downstairs, w ...
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