OneA Chapter by OzDuroseAnother story, Another PlaceVondemonde leant back against the sill of the great
window as the party busied it's self around him. He took a long, deep drag on
his thin cigarette, savouring the sensation as the smoke filled his lungs. Simple things, he thought, are the true bearers of pleasure. Slowly
he exhaled, letting the smoke fill into his mouth before cascading upwards like
a waterfall with a severe case of misdirection. Someone had once told him that
cigarettes could kill. Bloody ridiculous! Why, Vondemonde himself had smoked
for his whole damned life, and he was just as healthy at sixty-two as he was at
twenty-six. Either way nobody here seemed to care and a number had lit up
themselves. One
would be excused to think that the entire village was present; the manor house
was jammed with old folk stumbling about and wheezing for breath. Grief, how
Vondemonde hated Ross-on-Wye. The village was pretty enough; there was a nice
view of the rolling countryside to wake up to, but the population must have an
average age one-hundred-and-six. Worse still was the fact that every damned
street had it's own funeral parlour and the market was littered with
second-hand stores. This was clearly a place where the old came to die, and the
marginally younger came to buy a new pair of slacks before reaching the end of
the rope themselves. This was no place for Vondemonde, and though London was
filled with grime and smog, at least it had life! Still,
there was the odd younger couple around. He supposed there had to be, otherwise
who would carry the casket? But at tonight's party " be it a birthday, wedding
or funeral, he didn't know and he didn't care " only a fraction were below the
age of sixty. Vondemonde
himself was only there for business purposes. He took a snifter of brandy and
felt the burning sensation on his tongue as the alcohol closed the pores opened
by smoke - not wholly unpleasant. Then he refocussed on the real reason he was
here. In the centre of the room, mostly obscured by the wandering elderly, sat
the object of his attention. She
sat upright, perched with an air of dignity on the small couch between her
young cohort and a dashing young top-hatted chap. The latter was in deep
conversation with a busty redhead wearing a low-cut dress, and why the hell
not? Good on him! These two sat with less dignity than the old girl, their
bosoms rising and falling with each deep breath, exhausted from waltzing in the
next room. Vondemonde assumed they were not associated with his target. He was
safe, but he had to focus. She drank from the smallest cup
of tea he had ever seen, the little finger of her right hand extended as she
lifted the cup from its saucer. She people watched, looking round the room
smiling at passers-by and generally looking interested in the evening’s event.
The young lady on her left - the cohort seemingly dragged along to such events
- slumped in place wearing an expression that said Please, somebody, end my misery. And Vondemonde would. Eventually. He watched the old girl
intently, unaware of those around him, focused in as though peering down a
tunnel to a great light, all else shrouded in shadow. He was here for one
purpose and one purpose alone; the old Lady Fransworth. She wasn’t a particularly
pleasant lady to behold; a number of years older than himself, possibly in her
seventies, her large eyes drooped lazily behind small round glasses, her petite
mouth dwarfed by a proud, upturned nose. Her hair almost looked real, but was
betrayed by the Lady's habit of lifting the false scalp to scratch the real one
beneath. She filled out her dress more than generously, a dress which
unsuccessfully hid a wooden prophetic leg. This was, Vondemonde believed,
something she struggled with, and so had adapted the leg by adding two small
wheels of clay to the heel. She didn’t walk. She, in a very real sense, skated. A round, bald-headed chap with
a full moustache stumbled in Vondemonde's direction, catching and propping
himself against the the window's sill by the old man's side. Vondemonde kept
his keen gaze on the Lady, secure and unmoving. ‘Jolly good do, this, ey, old
chap?’ Vondemonde was silent. ‘I don’t believe "‘ he swayed a
little and caught the sill again. ‘I don’t believe we have been introduced,
sir. Are you "‘ he waved his left arm, Vondemonde glanced sideways at the
clumsy gesture, barely disguising his judgement. ‘Are you new to the area?’ Vondemonde returned his
attention to Fransworth and took another deep drag of his cigarette. Why did
the peculiar ones always come to him? He was in no more a mood to speak to the
drunken fart than he was to stick the fire's dying embers in his eyes. He gave
the man a look which any one else would have read Continue
speaking and I will tear your tongue out. But the bald man must have only
read the first part before opening his mouth again. Grief. He watched her now, willing her
to turn and look his way more than ever, hoping for his chance to be rid of his
unwelcome guest. And as luck would have it, if you believed in such silly
notions, she did. Lady Fransworth looked in his direction and met his stare
with a start. He held her gaze for a heartbeat or two as the little bald man
prattled on about this or that. Thank
goodness, he thought, then he put out his cigarette, straightened his
jacket and went in for the kill, leaving the conversationalist mid-sentence.
---
'Place this on the table,
that's a good girl' 'Yes, m'lady.' Emily sat
upright, took the teacup and saucer from her mistress and placed them on the
elaborately decorated table before her. Something
the old hag couldn't do for herself, heaven forbid! A moment of silence
passed, one of many this night. Fransworth spoke first, looking about the room,
but clearly addressing her maid. 'Oh I do enjoy these dinner
parties, new people to speak to, new stories to tell and to hear and to be
made.' Emily sighed. Her employer
didn't notice. 'Yes, m'lady.' Then Fransworth made a start, one so sudden Emily
thought the old bat was having a heart failure. ‘My my, who is that handsome
young man?’ ‘Handsome young man, m’lady?’
Emily sat straight and followed her mistress’s gaze with her own. On the other
side of the dimly lit room, through the crowds of people, she made out a man,
tall and thin. His suit was plain, yet hung over his slender body with an air
of sophistication and power. The smoke of his thin cigarette weaved before him
in a rich volume that silently masked his face. Still, she could make out his
determined eyes, sharp and firmly planted on Fransworth. Young man!? She thought and looked back to her ancient employer. Only comparatively. He must be in his
sixties, at least. ‘The mysterious man in the
black suit back there. By the window.’ ‘Ah yes.’ Emily thought she
recognised his image from the papers. She had about his retirement form a
career of exploration, the donation of his finds to the British Museum, and
subsequently his rise to Curator, as quick as one does when wealth outweighs
capability. ‘I believe that fine young man is a Mr Vondemonde, m’lady, from
London. He's only passing through the area.’ ‘Oh, such a shame.’ The lady
spoke without looking away from the man, she was captivated. ‘Continue’. Emily wasn't sure what to say,
she wasn't the Who's Who personified! ‘I believe he is the head of a department
at the British Museum,' she offered. 'Interested in ancient relics, so he’s
bound to be keenly interested in you!’ Emily didn’t say the last part out loud.
Or at least she hoped she hadn’t. She hated these parties, and on the odd
occasion her mistress was otherwise occupied, she would slip down a glass of
wine or two. She wasn’t drunk yet, she didn’t think, but she was well on her
way. Her Lady made no remark, but
continued to look towards Vondemonde, a disgusting twinkle in her elderly eye.
Either the insult had gone unspoken, or the old bat was deafer than Emily had
thought. Mr Vondemonde put out his cigarette and made his approach. He strolled forward, not once
pausing or moving as he passed through the crowd of guests. They seemed to
disperse before him like vapour, although unaware of his presence. ‘Lady Fransworth, I presume.’
He bent low at the waist and gently kissed the back of her hand. She blushed as
Emily watched, struggling to mask her disgust. ‘My Lady, your elegance and
abundance of …’ he paused ‘character travels well before you. Allow me to
introduce myself,’ Fransworth waved a hand, a clear indication that Emily
should leave. ‘my name is Charles B. Vondemonde and it is a pleasure to make
your acquaintance.’ Emily rolled her eyes, but was
glad to be freed of the sickening sight. She squeezed her way through the busy
corridors, passed the ball room where the old couples danced square dances and
the younger danced the waltz, and continued into the large dining room. All of
the furniture had been moved giving it a strangely odd, yet strangely familiar
sense of emptiness. Couples dotted the seats around the quiet room, speaking in
hushed tones. Emily could feel their eyes on her as she walked across the room
to the bar. Alone. She sat at the temporary bar,
one that had been there every time she had visited the Manor House, and ordered
a glass of white wine from the hired-hand. She rarely needed a drink, but some
nights were too miserable to resist. How could any man take such a shine to the
old hag she served? And for that matter how could any self-respecting lady
allow herself to be wooed by such a creepy old man? His abundance of character
had travelled before him also. He was a retired treasure hunter, and not the
brawn, rugged type " more the skinny snobbish type who would step on the shoulders
of real men in order to receive glory and fame. Yet there was, however
humiliating it seemed, a small sense of envy for the old lady. Emily couldn’t
remember the last time a man looked at her in that way, nor the last time she
had seen a man she took interest in. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested in
men, just that she simply couldn’t find the time to socialise. She spent most
hours caring for her mistress and attending her ‘dinner-parties for the elderly’,
as she came to refer to them, that she hadn’t had the opportunity to find a
real man for herself. She rested her head on the bar.
It was lucky for her that this room was so empty, she needed an escape from the
busying crowds; a place to be herself, by herself. But watching the evident
lack of skill displayed by the buck-toothed barman, she could hardly be
surprised by the lack of business. As he stumbled around searching for the
right glass, Emily thought on her own state of affairs. She too was a hired-hand,
working for Lady Fransworth as a zoo-keeper would an elephant; caring,
cleaning, feeding and the like. All things the woman could do for herself, but
Emily supposed she just needed the company in her old age. The thought saddened
her a little, considering the attitude she displayed towards her employer " not
a particularly nice one at best. She wondered if she was as bad at her job as
the spotty barman was at pouring a simple drink. He seemed to care about his
job as much as she did hers. It’s just a
passing phase, she told herself, I
only need to keep this job until I have enough money to escape to France. The sound of clay rolling along
the wooden floor grew louder as Lady Fransworth glided towards Emily. She
turned and addressed her Mistress with tired manner. 'My
dear! It seems I shan't be needing your presence tonight,' she said with the
giddiness of a school girl, 'Charles will be seeing me home this evening!' Goodness! That was quick work for an old
man! Emily was surprised but kept silent. 'You may head home when you are
finished here.' She tossed over a coin or two as Mr Vondemonde rushed over to
sweep her away. 'Have a drink! Enjoy the night!' And with that she was gone. Emily turned back to the bar,
taken back by her mistress’s generosity. It turned out that the cobwebbed heart
in the ancient woman’s chest still played a beat! And what a dirty old man! She
was rather impressed by the two, though sickened to think of what relations
they would have. Still at least they are happy. And now she had the night to
herself, alone with time to think on the bigger things in life. And dwell. And
wallow. Alone. The barman placed a glass of
white wine on the bar in front of Emily, spilling it only a little. She looked
up and saw the young man smile a smile filled with crooked teeth. Their eyes
met and Emily smiled an awkward smile back. Oh
bother, she
thought, am I really that desperate?
---
Vondemonde paid for the cab
back to the Fransworth residence. It wasn’t far from the manor house and would
have been an easy gliding distance for the old Lady if he hadn’t bought her
those additional drinks. She couldn’t go far without falling, especially on a
dark night like this. Curbs were an issue, he had realised. Curbs and roadsides
and any cobble. The cab was the easiest option. It pulled up to a large detached
house, one of many on this street " all similar to hers, but all smaller " and
the couple fell out in the silly manner one gets after too much wine.
Fransworth stumbled through the hedged garden up to the large wooden door that
had been painted a garish salmon. Vondemonde stood at the gate, studying the
symmetry of the house’s dark exterior. Four black windows stared back at him
from either side of the over-sized door. Fransworth struggled with her keys;
the air must have hit the alcohol, she seemed more drunk now than when they
left the party. He approached, took the keys from her hand and let them both
in. Inside, the house seemed larger
than the outside had suggested. There was an unnatural hum as the electronic
lighting flicked into life, instantly illuminating a grand, immaculately
cleaned foyer and it’s wide central staircase. Tall archways opened into
spacious rooms on either side, Fransworth entered the one to the left, leaving
Vondemonde to lock the front door. ‘Electric lighting?’ Vondemonde
followed the Lady into what appeared to be her living room. A large fireplace
adorned one wall, book shelves and cabinets devoured the rest. In the centre,
two armchairs flanked a humble couch on which Fransworth sat, facing the unlit
fire. ‘Oh yes! It’s the future, sir,
especially for someone in my condition. I can’t be expected to run around
lighting gas lamps all of the time!’ He supposed not and went to
take a seat. ‘No!’ she cried, just as he
turned to sit beside her. She shooed a small white cat out of slumber and onto
the floor. ‘Excuse Mr Fluffsies,’ she said, wiping the fine, white, malted hair
off the seat. ‘He has quite the ownership of this spot. You wouldn’t find him
sitting anywhere else. But tonight, you can take his place.’ Vondemonde didn’t know how to
react to this, her smile was suggestive and it felt odd. ‘Thank you for your
offer, but I shall be fine here’ he sat on one of the hairless armchairs, what
with the unthinkable threat of white hair on a black suit. As he lowered himself into the
somewhat uncomfortable armchair, Fransworth leapt from the couch with all the
surprising agility of a supple youth. 'Where are my manners! What will you have
to drink?' She rolled towards one of the
cabinets that housed a wide range of glasses and bottled drinks. She poured
Vondemonde a cognac from a full bottle, and herself a martini from an almost
empty one. She glided back, unexpectedly steady with drinks in hand. 'So, Mr
Vondemonde, tell me what brings you through Herefordshire.' 'Please, my dear, call me
Charles. My work with the Museum means that every now and then I get to do a
little travelling. I believe there is a small relic of great value held by a
private collector not too far from here. I am passing through on business to
confirm it's authenticity and, lets say, negotiate a price.' Her eyes grew large as she
listened to him speak. When he saw her that way her face looked younger, filled
with the innocence of a young girl. 'And what is this piece, exactly?' 'I'm afraid I cannot say. The
department has strict confidentiality rules, I'm sure you understand.' 'Indeed I do, Charles.' She
savoured the name as it passed her lips. Vondemonde took a large swig of his
brandy. 'Consider my mouth closed.' 'Thank you. This is a beautiful
house, Lady Fransworth, Bright and warm even without the fire. Do you mind if
I...?' He gestured the removal of his jacket. 'Oh, not at all. Please, allow
me.' Before he could refuse, she had
slipped her hands inside his jacket and slid it off his shoulders. He could
feel her breath on his neck as she moved around him, gracefully catching,
folding and placing the jacket on the back of his chair. Nimble little beast, isn't she? It was then that the lady noticed
the small piece of flat, circular stone that hung on a chain around his neck.
He quickly took it in one hand and was about to slip it under his collar when
Fransworth stopped him. 'Do you mind?' She asked, 'May I take a look?' Reluctantly, he slipped the
chain over his head and passed it to the lady. 'Excuse my naivety, but this is
quite embarrassing. You see, this is a keepsake of mine, a good luck charm, if
you will. One that was passed down from my father when I was a child.' In reality Vondemonde did not
believe in 'luck'. Any fortune was of your own making, not that of an inanimate
object. The inscription on the disk was beautiful and elegantly eastern, but
referred to Conjee; a sort of Chinese rice porridge. The pendant was by all
accounts worthless, but with any hope it could open a very important door. She took the stone from him
with all the sensitivity and caring as if it were made of brittle glass. He
watched as she inspected it and the intricate, oriental carvings it displayed. She passed it back to him and
smiled. 'Mr Vondemonde, I would like to show you something.' She led him through the house,
gliding over carpet and wood with distinct audible changes. He thought the
staircase would have been a challenge for her, but with an energy and mirth
Vondemonde found unnatural for an old lady with a wooden leg, she simply hopped
up step by step. The old man had a job keeping up with her. They entered a room towards the
front of the house. It was a spacious room with a loud décor of beige and
pinks, as sickly-sweet as the powerful aroma. A four-post bed occupied one wall
with vanity chests on each side, both messily laidened with overflowing
jewellery boxes, wig mannequins and perfume bottles. But to Vondemonde the most
strikingly odd thing about the room was that each wall was covered, inch by
inch, with portraits of felines. Painting after painting of cats and kittens,
alone or in groups, every colour, every breed, every angle. Fransworth rolled towards the
bed. 'Ah-hem, isn't it a little
early for that, just yet? Maybe another drink?' She looked at him perplexed then
caught his meaning. Once again she blushed and looked at him with a twinkle in
here eye and a poorly masked smile. 'No, Charles, that is not what I wish to show. At least not yet!' He gave her a
dashing smile that quickly dissolved into hopeless worry as she turned her
back. 'If you don't mind waiting in the hall, I'll be out in a moment.' He complied, and not a minute
later she emerged from the room waving a set of keys. She led the man down a
long corridor decorated with more portraits of playful kittens until she
finally stopped at one door of many. She halted for a moment, then turned back
to the door they had just passed. 'This, sir, is my old Junk Room.' She laughed
to herself as she found the correct key and unlocked the door. As it opened, a fantastic
golden light spilled into the corridor. Vondemonde stood, speechless, he could
have slapped her right there and then! The Lady's 'Junk Room' was filled with
treasures, a collection almost as vast as his own, but thrown together in a
dusty clutter that gave the feeling of a storage cupboard. She walked in,
Vondemonde still paralysed at the shock. It was truly amazing what one could
find in an old girl's loft, or in this case, Junk Room. Pah! Junk Room?! Ancient shields, carved African
masks and intricate-yet-bizarre tribal instruments littered the room, covered
in dust and set in ill repair. The room had a stale, dusky odour like that of
an old tomb or temple in which most of these treasures belonged. Fransworth
pushed her way to the back of the room, a bright golden light fell over
everything, setting in Vondemonde a dream-like wonder. She turned and beckoned
him in. Did she not know what she had here?! 'My dearest Lady Fransworth,'
he started, having had the chance to take everything in, 'just what...' he
paused again, a mixture of bewilderment, awe and disbelief. 'Oh, all of this? Just trinkets
passed down from my father and the like.' She searched through an old oak desk,
it's drawers filled with Roman coins and small carvings. Vondemonde raised his eyes.
Before him hung a stunning chandelier, it's crystals shattering light in
fragments across the room. At it's centre was the source of the golden light.
The Orb of K'inich " the stone of the sun-eyed. 'Pretty, isn't it? Just a tad
garish for my liking. After a while the gold hurts my eyes and there is no way
to turn the damned thing off! No switches, no snuffer...' she looked up,
clapped her hands loudly and said in a firm, clear voice 'Off', then looked at
Vondemonde and gave a shake of her head. 'Nothing! Anyway! This is what I
wanted to show you.' She held out her right hand, within it sat a pile of stone
disks like casino chips. He took them and held them under the light at the
perfect distance for him to focus properly. Usually he would have his glasses
for this sort of thing. Each disk was fashioned similar to his Conjee pendant, but
were inscribed with the names of gods and kings. This was indeed a true, albeit
small, find. 'You may keep them for your own collection, as a reminder of
tonight.' She game him a smile, he couldn't resist giving an astonished one
back. They left the junk room,
Fransworth replaced her keys and the two headed back down the stairs, she
descending by sliding down the rail. Vondemonde had to admire her; she was
indeed old, but had the careless nature of a child. They sat and continued
their drinks. 'I simply prefer the New,' she
offered as they sat. 'There are great benefits of our modern technology;
central heating, electric light, telecommunication. They are the things of true
worth, Mr Vondemonde, not these old bits of cracked stone and wood.' He was offended by the
statement, but did not, in turn, want to offend her. 'Indeed, there are many
marvels, many advantages, but...' 'But I cannot simply give those
items away. Though they are old and broken and some of them are downright
ghastly, they hold a certain sentimental value. They are memories of my father
and his father before him. They were gifts from passed lovers and ex-husbands.
Not the sort of thing one wants on show at all times, you understand.' Who where these men? Her
father? Ex-husbands? They all had access to ancient treasures and would pass
them off as tokens of affection? He suddenly felt like a small, tomb-thieving
fish in an entire ocean of archaeologists and excavators. 'Of course,' he said
through clenched teeth. She glanced at the tall-case
clock in the corner of the room - it was almost midnight. She gave Vondemonde a
smile and poured him another drink. 'Sit tight, I am going to freshen up.'
---
Once
he was certain she had gone, Vondemonde put down the glass and rose to his
feet. He ascended the stairs in a few elegant leaps and headed for her room. A
well tuned voice sang out occupying all of the first floor, a voice which appeared
to emanate from the room opposite the Lady's Chamber. As he drew closer he
heard the sounds of rippling water overlapping the reverberated voice. Well at least she'll be clean. The old
man shuddered. He entered the bedroom and made search for the key. On the
bed she had laid out a small lace dress, pearls and a red bob-wig with a
feathered headdress. Vondemonde liked the new fashion, it was damned sexy, but
the thought of her in such attire left a bitter taste in his mind's eye. Then
he spotted the prosthetic leg propped up in the corner. Sweet mother of all that is right and pure, he thought, it goes all the way up! Quickly
he scanned the room and silently inspected the drawers, careful not to disturb
anything, until he found the keys hidden within the lady's oversized knicker drawer.
As he turned to leave he jumped at an unexpected sight; the small white cat sat
in his way. He looked at it with a peculiar stare, the cat looked back and
cocked it's head aside. It was a funny looking creature, more fluff than cat.
It's features somewhat undersized, almost lost amidst a large puff of soft
hair. It's expression was blank, emerald eyes appearing to look in different
directions. Vondemonde passed by quietly and continued down the corridor as
silent as a wraith. The cat turned and, in a simple manner, followed. He
rushed through the house to the Junk Room, making a mental note of his
surroundings. He had done this sort of thing before, and was damned good at it.
When a new challenge presented its self he would sketch on the blank pages of
his mind a blueprint indicating floor plans and obstacles. He would commit all
things to memory " windows, hiding places, security systems, booby-traps and
the like. It was always best to be prepared. Three
doors down the right hand corridor towards the back of the house - three doors
and not four - stood the junk room. He unlocked and entered. Inside he took a
closer look at the golden treasure. The glare of the treasure masked how well
it was bonded to the chandelier, and made it impossible to see how the
chandelier was fitted to the ceiling. Tinted
spectacles, he made the mental note, and
heavy duty gloves, just to be on the safe side. In the
corridor the cat sat watching him and listening to the ladies song. Vondemonde
stepped passed the critter, locked the door and checked the next one down. He
opened that into a small box room, dark and without windows. A terrible memory
from his childhood flooded into his mind; the haunting darkness of the box
room. He shuddered and tore himself away from the thought, then closed that
door and opened the one opposite. He entered a small guest room with large bay
windows and ran over to inspected them; panel windows with a diamond stained
glass pattern held in place with a lead lining. He removed the pin-lock, releasing
the lower portion of the window and slid it upwards. It moved with stutters and
jerks and a terrible screeching sound that matched the voice in the hall. Sticking
his head out of the window and surveyed the back garden and a large, sturdy, neighboring tree. Excellent. He
closed the window, not bothering to replace the lock-pin, turned towards the
door and saw again the silhouetted shape of the docile cat, curious of the
man's wanderings. He exited the room, shooing the creature along, then made his
way back to Fransworth's chamber. The cat plodded on behind with a mind full of
warm fluff that tickled as it moved it's head. It smiled. The
singing came to an abrupt end; she was exiting the bath. He ran silently down
the corridor and slipped into the old Lady's room. He went straight to the
knicker drawer and deposited the keys. 'My
dear!' The voice caught him. He spun around so quickly he almost lost
consciousness. There before him, his fate on crutches. Lady Fransworth was
wearing nothing more than a towel. Not even a wig. 'If I had known you were
this keen I wouldn't have kept you waiting!' The odd strand of natural hair
wavered in the air as she giggled to herself. She gave him a cheeky smile and
without moving, dropped the towel. Of all
the things he had ever done over his long career as treasure hunter and cat
burglar there were few things that made him actually hate himself. Lying with
Lady Fransworth was one of them.
---
The rays of morning light shone
through a gap between the curtains and fell silently across the face of a
sleeping Lady Fransworth. She stirred from a peaceful sleep, took a deep breath
and snuggled deeper under the large duvet, as soft as clouds, as warm and
inviting as a lovers arms against her naked skin. And then, as she thought on
the wonderful evening before, she became well aware that she was, in fact,
alone. She
lifted herself up into a sitting position and squinted in the morning light as
she viewed her room. On the pillow to her right lay a folded piece of paper
with her name written in a romantic script. She opened it and read. "My dearest Lady Fransworth, Please
accept my deepest, heartfelt apology but work has a way of stealing one away
from the comfort of a lover's side. Alas, urgent business must be dealt with
urgently. I
can only thank you for your kind hospitality last night, and as Fate, in her
wisdom, has brought us together once, I can only hope and pray that our paths
cross again in the future. Yours Truly, Charles
B. Vondemonde P.S.
You are a very, very generous Lady in the bedroom." She lay back with a smile, succumbing
to the simple pleasure of a comfortable mattress. Last night had been the best
she had had in over two months, she tipped her hat to the sensuous Mr
Vondemonde.
© 2013 OzDurose |
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