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Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands.
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