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Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. I could not have spoken to her. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded.
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