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... u, Mr. Schweya."
In a small coffee shop outside the Liverpool Customs, Arthur took a business card from John Schweya’s hands, glanced it briefly, and then slipped it into his jacket pocket.
The gentleman sitting opposite him was dressed rather oddly, his head wrapped in a dark black turban, his body draped in an indigo flannel coat that fell past his knees, beneath which was a wine-red vest sizable enough for Great Dumas, followed by a honey-colored rubber chest protector and two ...
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