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For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Jack was not half your age when he died. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window.
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