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He too looked at the girl, slackened his pace and looked at her again through his eye-glasses, looked over his shoulder after he had passed, and finally came to a dead stop. They order me to get my man, and I get him. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. Smiling, the Chinaman gave the correct pronunciation. “He is not—I don’t like him. "I am, Charcoal. Poe is all right, if you don't mind nightmares. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. But all normal humans smelled wonderful to her, even dirty ones.
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