Alex Campbell
Alex Campbell is a physician—preeminent in her field. She’s brilliant and driven to succeed. She’s the youngest pediatric oncologist at a major university anywhere in the world. She’s busy and work fulfills her . . . until she meets Richard Wales, that is. Her life will never be the same again.
Richard Wales has no plans for a wife—any wife. Ever. He’s the spare, not the heir, thank God, and has a Navy career to develop. But when he meets a woman in Heatherton’s bookshop, he discovers precisely what he’s missed—and what he intends to change in his life. Forthwith. All he must do is convince his father she would suit, a decidedly daunting proposition if ever there was one. But when he discovers an interfering someone intruding into his private affairs he risks losing the only treasure he’s ever longed to find—the only dream that’s ever mattered . . . .
~Alex Campbell
Richard Wales has no plans for a wife—any wife. Ever. He’s the spare, not the heir, thank God, and has a Navy career to develop. But when he meets a woman in Heatherton’s bookshop, he discovers precisely what he’s missed—and what he intends to change in his life. Forthwith. All he must do is convince his father she would suit, a decidedly daunting proposition if ever there was one. But when he discovers an interfering someone intruding into his private affairs he risks losing the only treasure he’s ever longed to find—the only dream that’s ever mattered . . . .
~Alex Campbell
Bollocks! Could this bloody day possibly worsen?
Richard was confident it couldn’t. A petite young woman stood within the shop, though Heatherton had failed to show her the door. Damn him. No. There she stood while the old proprietor rushed toward his safe, doubtless jumping to perform her slightest bidding at the first sight of her charming smile, to collect whatever treasure he had stowed within its voluminous interior.
As if I were not an excellent client . . . one fully deserving of Heatherton’s time . . . and a moment in which to conduct my personal transactions—in private!
Which he bloody well was. Furthermore—if a furthermore was required—he was one who demanded discretion from those with whom he dealt. And, was one whom Heatherton expected at this precise moment.
Now what?
Perhaps he could catch the elderly proprietor’s eye to wave the lady away. His car sat curbside, his driver standing beside it, hands folded, waiting—and watching—and likely amused. While Richard fumed. He grasped the door’s latch, but paused, hoping to see the young woman preparing to depart. But no. Of course not. She lingered on.
This will not do.
After another maddening morning and yet another confrontation with his even more maddening father. Richard had left London, determined to put time and distance between them. Both his father and grandfather dogged him, determined to drag him into the family firm, no matter that he might possess other, worthier, goals for his path in life.
Now this.
The woman’s dawdling delayed his engagement. Heatherton knew it—or bloody well should. All Richard wanted was to purchase the damned book—if it was, as the proprietor had represented, in pristine condition—and afterward, settle into his hotel for a jot of blessed quiet. Room service. Privacy. No responsibilities for at least one night. His time was valuable—at least to him.
Richard hesitated a further moment to observe the woman within. Her face was so transparent he felt as if he could read her mind. He mustered an ironic smile.
She would make a terrible liar . . . . An American, perhaps?
He could almost see her thoughts race as her gaze lingered on the books cluttering the shelves, and peering cautiously up those treacherous stairs that spiraled narrowly into the upper reaches of the ancient shop. He recalled feeling much the same wonderment as a small boy upon first entering the establishment in the company of his father. Were he forced to confess it, he felt awed still. Even yet, the place clutched his imaginings.
What is she after?
Richard fixed his gaze on Heatherton. He stooped and spun the lock’s tumbler on the antique safe, opened the door, and lifted an intricately carved wooden box from within its dark confines. Donning spotless white cotton gloves, he reached within and withdrew the book from a leather bag.
My book. Damn Heatherton to the farthest, coldest reaches of hell.
Richard seized the latch again, fully intent upon storming the bulwarks—as it were. But hesitated.
For what?
The woman pulled white cotton gloves from her handbag and slipped them over her small hands. Heatherton handed her a paddle to turn the pages and hovered, a vengeful angel, to ensure her compliance with his strict edict. Richard grinned. He knew that diktat—never, ever touch one of Heatherton’s prized manuscripts with bare hands—or any hands at all—though this woman seemed to know what she was about.
A collector. Doubtless.
The well-oiled latch clicked as Richard opened the door on silent hinges—bit-by-bit—and reached up to grasp the bell to prevent it from ringing. He slipped into the shop, touching his finger to his lips to still the old fellow’s usual obsequious greeting. Richard’s soft-soled shoes silenced his footsteps as he strolled toward the mahogany bookstand before which the young woman stood. Lips parted, wonder and reverence filled her gaze, as she pored over the book.
She jumped and sucked in a sharp breath when his hand dropped onto her shoulder. A perfectly cut cascade of shoulder-length silvery blonde hair whipped about her head as she spun to face him. Pale grey eyes widened, one hand clapped to her chest.
I’ve seen her somewhere. But . . . where?
*~*~*~*
A large warm hand dropped onto Alex’s shoulder. She jumped and gasped, and slammed a hand to her chest, fingers splayed across her breastbone. Oh, God. Startled half out of her wits. She stared into the brilliant blue eyes of the handsomest man she had ever seen, managing not to gape—by little more than a hair. Mischief flashed in the eyes gazing back at her. The merest glimmer of amusement traversed the landscape of that dazzling face.
“Hullo,” he said. "And if you'll forgive my impertinence, what are you doing with my book?"
Though she hadn’t been aware of the presence of anyone but herself and the elderly proprietor in the bookshop, the man had entered, communicated with Mr. Heatherton by some non-verbal means, and moved close to her without her having even been aware of his proximity. This despite her proud claim of being the most observant person she knew. Her mouth opened and closed, working helplessly to formulate a reply to his question, unable to even recall what it was, and certain she resembled nothing so much as a fish out of water. The ancient book on the stand before her had arrested her attention a moment before, but her brain now blanked everything—that is, everything save his face.
Inborn luxury lingered in his voice. It called to mind the very best chocolate, or the finest Bordeaux wine . . . or perhaps, silk sliding against her skin. His scent matched his voice. Something designer. Spicy. Woodsy. Smoky, redolent of a peat fire. Her gaze feasted on thick golden blond hair. Perfectly cut. Not a hair out of place. His Saville Row navy-blue suit breathed bespoke tailoring. His silk tie identified him as an Oxford grad. Balliol College, unless she was mistaken—which she rarely was.
“Hullo,” she replied, finally catching her breath . . . her heartrate finally managing to slow to more or less the same rate as her slothful brain.
“If I may be so bold, why is my book sitting before you?” His lips widened into a smile that lit his remarkable eyes as if a lamp had been flicked on in the gloom of a pitch-black room.
“Since it rests on the bookstand before you, I believe your reply should be, I am browsing it. You do, after all, make every appearance of turning the pages.”
“I am reading it,” Alex replied dutifully. “Excuse me. I’ve been remarkably thick, but you startled me.”
He had asked her something about the book. She gasped as comprehension struck. “I must beg your pardon,” she said. “You must be the patron Mr. Heatherton mentioned when I asked to see the Caxton.”
Mentioned? Privately, she scoffed at the word. The elderly proprietor had all but tossed her to the curb. Regardless. What he had failed to mention is that you’re splendidly handsome.
And familiar, unless she was utterly mistaken. Which she rarely was. Alex had met him somewhere before today. And would soon place him. She was sure.
“Yes, that is likely. Did . . . word of the book bring you to Bath?” he asked hesitantly.
She cocked her head. His question was couched in an almost, but not quite, nonchalant manner. A collector? They were often odd lots. Perhaps he wished to prevent himself from revealing how badly he wanted the book? Alex employed similar questioning techniques when attempting to coax sensitive medical information from a reluctant family member.
“No, I came out to wander through the market today. I spied this shop on the way back to my hotel. The shop’s window only increased my interest. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Something Dickensian comes to mind.”
He chuckled at her allusion. “I fully understand,” he said. “Since my childhood, I’ve felt the same.”
Alex eyed him. If he appreciated her reference, he also felt the same about old books. “Old and rare books draw me like iron filings toward a magnet. Once I saw this book, though, I had eyes for nothing else. But my interest in it, I am sorry to report, is limited to mere veneration for its age and the meticulous manner in which somebody preserved it. Others I have seen are not as well-cared-for and not as pristine.”
The book had been mere icing on the cake for Alex. An idiom which also fit the little shop. Pretty, rose-colored mouldings surrounded small square panes of age-rippled glass on bow-fronted windows that contained a display of old books encased by rich, gold-embossed leather bindings. They drew her irresistibly through the door. The ticking of an ancient clock that hung on the wall behind the aged proprietor was the only noise disturbing the peace of . . . centuries. The silent sigh of a dust mote falling onto a book would surely resound through the shop like a shot from a cannon. The pungent scent of old books and old paper could not have appealed more.
A few steps to the left of Mr. Heatherton’s heavily laden desk, a dark stairwell had seized her attention. While waiting for him to produce the oldest, rarest book in the shop, Alex couldn’t resist a quick peek. The narrowest, darkest, most precipitous ascent she had ever encountered slid into view and curved away out of sight above her. Not a single stair tread matched its mate, either in height or in depth. Alex hardly required a ruler to spot the obvious defect. The prospect of climbing it would have scared her witless—and she wasn’t given to fears of many sorts. Around her, books lay piled on tables or stacked onto shelves in no discernible order, resembling nothing so much as a small ancient library. Had Bob Cratchitt strolled through the door with Tiny Tim on his shoulder, Alex would not have been surprised. They would match the proprietor’s Ebenezer Scrooge to a “T.”
When she had asked to see the oldest book in his shop, the man cited wealthy patrons and rarity of manuscripts to put her off, but to no avail. She wanted to see what the old fellow could produce. Unused to having her legitimate requests denied, she had lifted an eyebrow and quirked a small smile. Though surrendering to her cool adamancy, the shopkeeper grumbled, not quite beneath his breath.
Alex wondered how many years the book he withdrew from its leather wrapping had rested within its carved box. Not years. Centuries, she corrected herself.
The color hadn’t faded from the ancient leather binding. Mr. Heatherton placed it on the bookstand before her, hovering over her like a helicopter parent to ensure her compliance with his command to handle the book with only the paddle he’d placed in her white-gloved hand. As if she would ever think to handle the precious tome otherwise. His stricture amused her—but only until she opened the book’s cover.
Alex stood transfixed before the volume. Oh, she had read Canterbury Tales as a child. Her mother had home-schooled her, and the work had been de rigueur. The book on the stand before her bore no resemblance, though, to the paperback version she had once thumbed so well, or to the much older volume she had inherited from her grandfather. This one was printed in Chaucer’s English—the language of the century in which it had been written and published. The single illustration she found was a woodcut of the author’s face and beneath it was inscribed a date—1478, and a single number, one. She could hardly breathe for the wonder she felt, and gratitude that someone had preserved such a treasure so perfectly. She knew precisely what this was—and what price its owner would certainly demand. Resting before her was the first book ever printed in the English language.
*~*~*~*
“Are you a collector?” Richard asked, eying her carefully. Nobody was more unscrupulous than collectors. Nobody. Coins, stamps, art . . . books? They were alike—ruthless and corrupt.
“No—well, yes—sort of,” she replied evenly. “Alas, I haven’t the time required for such a lofty pursuit, no matter how much I would wish it. Unfortunately, my professional life consumes nearly every minute of my waking day.” She smiled ruefully. “The only thing I do for myself is write when I should be sleeping.”
“What do you write?” he asked, still eying her. Alas? Who uses such words these days . . . besides the ladies of my family? Though he found her reply credible, he still wasn’t quite persuaded.
“Historical romance. I enjoy the work and find it relaxes me.”
“I see,” he replied, unimpressed by her…vocation? Very well, she swayed him. Very likely, she hadn’t the resources. But this was the only matter upon which he’d failed to be captivated. What he saw was remarkable. She seemed bright—unusually bright. Her speech was educated—exceedingly well-educated, if he guessed correctly. He saw the truth in her remarkable eyes and heard it in her melodious voice. And she was lovely, even beautiful, with exquisite small bones defining the contour of her face, petite stature, and slender body.
From her breezy manner with old Heatherton, he first thought her an American. Her easy assumption that he would do as she requested merely because she wished it seemed to confirm it. As if she were somehow entitled, an unattractive mannerism common amongst the race. Yet there was nothing distasteful about her. Her refined accent left him at odds with his guess. The only other place he had heard one such as hers was within the confines of his own home and those of the noblest British families. She had captivated him from the first word she uttered . . . hullo.
His assumption, that she likely hadn’t the resources to be a true book collector, seemed at odds with her garb. The lady was superbly attired. Was she wealthy? A chic navy Donegal tweed jacket and skirt clothed her tiny frame, and she sported a lovely navy wool felt gambler hat that exactly matched the color of her suit. The hat was trimmed with a dark navy-colored silk-satin ribbon that changed to iridescent black and then to true blue as she moved her head, embellished liberally with black feathers at the back base of the crown. Her small leather handbag and high-heeled shoes matched her suit. Her bag loomed on the stand above the precious book, failing to touch it, but only just. She held navy blue kid gloves in one white cotton-gloved hand and the paddle in her other. She wore her clothing with the éclat of an American. But every American tourist he had ever seen in his life was a hell of a lot more casually garbed than this elegant girl. Woman, he corrected himself. His interest in her increased by leaps and bounds.
“And what are your professional goals?” he remembered to ask.
“I am a professor of pediatric oncological medicine at George Washington University in Washington, D.C.”
His eyebrows felt as if they had suddenly struck the ceiling. “I beg your pardon? You said you were a writer.”
“No-o. I said I write.”
“You’re a professor? I don’t believe you. You bear no resemblance whatever to even one of my old dons. For one thing, you appear, at least, to be below the age of fifty. Please do not shatter my belief. I may slit my throat if you tell me that you are, in fact, sixty.” Humor toyed with the corner of his lips.
Her gaze raked him, an eyebrow lifted, disdainful of his comment. In a deadpan voice, she replied, “You are too kind, young man. I am actually sixty-five.”
Her raised-eyebrow appraisal noted his surprise before she dropped an eyelid in a subtle, slow wink. “I am twenty-six years of age, Mr . . . ?”
He barked a laugh, ignoring her humorous attempt to learn his identity, and instead strove to avoid what always followed once his identity was learned. “Ah. I am relieved. You concerned me for a moment.” Besides, he found her company thoroughly delightful. “Though—aren’t most people a bit . . . older when they graduate medical school?”
“Yes. Usually they are my age. By the time they finish their pediatric residencies they approach thirty years of age.”
“I see.” He wanted to pursue this conversation further—wanted to know her further. Still grinning into her stunning silver-blue eyes, he cleared his throat. “Since you hold the paddle, perhaps you would be so kind as to close the book so I might see the binding, and open to its coverleaf so I may see its condition?”
Her eyes widened, and a gasp escaped her lips. “I am so sorry. I totally ignored the fact that the book must be reserved for you. I am keeping you from it. I sincerely beg your pardon. I shall just thank the proprietor for the privilege he granted me and take leave.”
“Please don’t. There is no need, I assure you. Shall we examine the book together?” he asked, hardly believing his own offer, and donning a pair of white cotton gloves, slipped from his inside breast pocket. “I wouldn’t wish to deprive you of the pleasure.”
“Thank you. I should decline your kind offer, but would be ever so grateful to accept it,” she breathed. “I have seen and handled ancient manuscripts aplenty, but never anything preserved as perfectly as this,” she added, sighing, her eyes lit with appreciation for the marvel before her.
They stood side-by-side, saying nothing as she applied the paddle to carefully lift and turn the pages from the first one.
“Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour . . . .”
The text in Middle English vernacular she quoted was pure and sweet. “The ink hasn’t faded after all this time.” Her soft voice was filled with wonder. “No smudges from careless fingers . . . . Not one. Many of the pages do not even appear to be fingered—perhaps a bit yellowed, though so many, many years have passed since its printing. Imagine--five centuries,” she breathed, awed—just as he was. “Someone took great care of this treasure.”
Standing so close beside him, he couldn’t fail to notice how petite she was. Richard laid claim to three inches above six feet tall and didn’t often favor diminutive women. This lady was smaller than his famously short grandmother by two or three inches, making her--what? Little more than five feet tall.
“It is fortunate, don’t you agree?” he asked, keeping track of the conversation with effort.
“I believe fortunate is an understatement. No wonder the shop’s proprietor was so reluctant to reveal this treasure. It should be preserved in a museum in an oxygen-free environment beneath treated glass to preserve the printing from sunlight’s damaging effects.”
She began to turn—perhaps to apologize for her earlier cavalier approach to poor old Heatherton? Richard moved closer beside her and grinned down at her once again. “Doubtless. Heatherton hovering resembles a Lynx helicopter combat pilot’s, one charged with guarding the nation’s safety. You must have been persuasive.”
“You are too generous. Imperious might come closer to the truth.”
“Think nothing of it, Madam. I, too, am astonished to find this work so unspoiled,” the old fellow said from behind him.
Her features registered gratitude for the man’s generosity. “You are very kind, Mr. Heatherton.”
The smile she flashed Heatherton would melt icebergs—and lit her face with unflawed beauty. Richard peeled his gaze away with effort to glance behind him toward the aged proprietor as he spoke. “After you finish your compliments, Heatherton, I want the price.”
The proprietor cleared his throat, but his voice remained scratchy, like footsteps on dry autumn leaves, and a little muffled. “You must acknowledge the quality of the piece, Sir.”
“Unquestionably, Mr. Heatherton. Your price, if you please?”
“Six hundred fifty, Sir,” he replied, his voice hesitant.
“Five hundred fifty,” Richard countered.
“Six hundred, Sir, nothing less.”
“Done. Thank you, Heatherton.”
Richard slipped a checkbook from his inside pocket and penned the amount without further haggling, finishing his signature with his usual flourish.
He heard a gasp and shot the woman beside him a sharp glance. “Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you. But I must beg your pardon. I did not mean to pry. The amount you wrote simply overwhelmed me.”
“It is quite all right. Though the price is not a secret, I would be grateful if you didn’t mention my purchase. There are those . . . .”
“I understand--really. I would not think of intruding upon your privacy.” A glorious blush flamed the ivory skin of her lovely face. “I really should not have glanced toward your checkbook. You may depend upon my discretion, Sir.”
Mr. Heatherton took the opportunity her wordy apology afforded to replace the book in its leather bag and lay it in the carved wooden carton. His nimble fingers deftly wrapped the whole in plain brown paper that he secured with heavy string.
After Heatherton handed Richard the package, his charming companion cleared her throat. “I really must leave.”
“I will drop you at your residence, if I may.”
“Thank you, but I do not want to put you to any trouble. I am not staying far from here and this is an extraordinary day for late fall. I am glad for the walk.”
“Have you had your tea?”
“No. I thought I might stop in my hotel dining room before returning to my suite.”
Richard placed a hand on the small of her back and felt her slender frame. “Thank you, Mr. Heatherton. I trust you will give me first option on the…other book you mentioned, once it arrives?”
Bowing, the elderly shop owner replied, “Certainly, Sir. I shall notify your secretary directly upon its receipt.”
“Very good,” he replied and escorted the woman through the door. Despite lengthening shadows indicating the lateness of the hour, Richard’s awful day had just become brighter.
*~*~*~*
“Thank you, Mr. Heatherton,” Alex called back to the shopkeeper before the door closed behind them. Curiosity barely contained, she turned to the man beside her. “Who are you?”
“Perhaps you would permit me to join you for tea?” he asked.
Alex’s eyes widened, but hardly with wonder. Yet another attempt to deflect my question?
“I might suggest somewhere that offers a better selection than your hotel dining room, however fine it may be.”
“It would be a pleasure, if you have the time, but . . . .”
He interrupted…yet again. “May I suggest the Regency Tea Room?”
“I would enjoy it. Thank you, but . . . .”
He held up a finger to delay answering the question, yet again. “If you’ll permit me, I shall be ready to leave in a moment.”
They approached a massive black Bentley waiting at the curb, a uniformed man standing beside its open passenger door. Uniformed? Not liveried. Her handsome companion from the shop handed the paper-wrapped parcel over to the chauffeur and spoke a few rapid words in a low tone she could not overhear.
Alex still reeled over the book’s price. Not six hundred pounds. She could have readily afforded such a small sum. But six hundred thousand pounds—for a single book? Her companion had removed his checkbook and written the number as if the sum meant nothing. A quick mental calculation when she saw the five zeroes left her astonished. Something just over a million dollars, she estimated, and quickly revised her assessment of the wealth of someone who could so coolly spend such a sum on any book, no matter how great the treasure.
“Yes, Sir,” the driver replied and stepped back toward the car door.
“Oh, and Broadwater, I’ll escort Dr . . . ?” He glanced toward Alex with a question in his eyes.
“Campbell,” she replied. “Alexandra Campbell.”
“I’ll escort Dr. Campbell to tea and walk back after I’ve seen her to her hotel.”
“Yes, Sir. Very good, Sir,” he replied.
Her companion turned back to her and asked, “May I suggest the Regency Tea Room?”
Her amusement showed. “You already asked and I replied it would be lovely. But you have adroitly avoided answering my question. What is your name, please? Your driver bowed, and Mr. Heatherton . . . twice, so you will surely forgive my less than idle curiosity.” She continued to probe her memory for where she had last met him.
My given name is Richard,” he replied, providing no further information.
“Just…Richard? No surname? How very singular. I have never met anyone possessing that peculiarity.”
“Likely not,” he said, his gaze assessing. “My surname is . . . Wales. I doubt you’ve ever heard it before.”
“Actually, that isn’t correct. I have. The name, though uncommon, isn’t unknown. Are you in Bath with your wife and children, Mr. Wales?”
“I am not married. And you?”
She didn’t bother stifling a laugh. “I recall mentioning that I am a twenty-six-year-old pediatric professor. My life has been defined by nothing beyond study and work.”
“Nothing? How old were you when you graduated college? I would hazard a guess, but I would be bound to fail.”
“I was twelve years of age when I left Harvard, Mr. Wales. I was fifteen when I graduated Princeton Medical School. I was far too young to write prescriptions. My senior residents co-signed everything until I finished my residency. I completed my oncology fellowship at Children’s National Medical Center just after my twenty-first birthday. My oncology mentor offered me an associate professorship. I became a full professor a year later, after his retirement.”
“You graduated university at . . . twelve?”
From his rising voice, she knew her claim appalled him. “Yes.”
“When did you enter, if I may be so bold?”
“I was nine years of age. I was a prodigy.”
“Now there is an irony I can appreciate.” The inclination to laugh failed him.
“And you? What do you do?” she asked.
He eyed her before replying carefully. “My father and grandfather are attempting to coerce me into joining the family firm, though I prefer my current career. I serve as a regular officer in the British Navy.”
“Indeed? Oh…yes. Yes, of course. I have met you, you see. My father is an American naval officer, Admiral William Campbell.”
“Quite right. Indeed, we have met, though I must say, you do not resemble your younger self much,” Richard replied, his gaze anchored on her. “I was a junior leftenant, asked to join my admiral at the White House. You were the girl whom I accompanied to supper that evening. Though I recalled your lovely silvery-blonde hair and striking pale grey-blue eyes, I could not place you. You must have been only about . . . .”
“Sixteen,” she finished for him. “I was certain I recognized your face from somewhere. I regret to concede that I could not have been a promising specimen at that age, especially not on that dreadful night. You could not have been impressed.”
“How did you happen to splash red wine down the president’s white dinner jacket? Though, of course, he was a mere congressman at the time.”
Alex sighed. “That awful man . . . . He placed a cold, clammy hand on my bare back, and startled me at the same moment I lifted my goblet for a sip. Though I was sorry to embarrass my parents, he deserved the red stain I left on the front of his jacket. My only hope, at the time, was that I had stained it permanently. The occasion wasn’t the first time the awful man startled me so—or even the fourth.”
“You don’t seem contrite, Dr. Campbell.” He laughed at the face she made.
“Please call me Alex. No, I am not contrite about any of my words or actions toward that man.”
“Am I to understand you don’t like him?”
“There isn’t a thing about him I find agreeable.”
“I daresay you’ll have a good deal to say during the upcoming election.”
“I am voiceless. My father is a serving United States Navy officer. I will say nothing about the man, no matter how despicable I find him.”
“Good girl. Now tell me, why did you choose oncology, Alex? Why not neurosurgery or something equally glamorous?”
“I suppose you must chalk the decision up to my egotism. I want my patients awake.”
He barked a laugh, clearly appreciating her droll, deadpan declaration. “Now I know you’re a witty, but egotistical, professor of pediatric medicine, possessing decided opinions about inconvenient politicians, and some awkwardness with a glass full of good claret. We’ve a real start on a fine acquaintance, Dr. Campbell.”
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