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He looked older. His hair was silver. His face was lined with exhaustion.
But the obsessive fire in his eyes was unmistakable.
He was hunched over a brass gear assembly, jeweler’s loupe pressed to one eye.
In his hand was a newspaper dated three weeks earlier.
Clara’s hands flew to her mouth.
“No.”
Her knees nearly buckled.
“He’s alive.”
“My father was ruthless,continue reading …
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