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“What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. “What the hell is going on here, Officer?” He grumbled. ’ ‘The what, miss?’ asked Kimble, frowning. There was a couple who disappeared. An ancient smile lay on his lips. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please.
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