The Bridge That Broke
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The Bridge That Broke
IT was a Tuesday afternoon in midsummer. Paris was deserted—a city
of the dead. Jim Barnett sat in his office with his feet on his desk.
He was in his shirt-sleeves. A glass of lager beer stood al his elbow. A green blind shut out the blazing sun. To the prejudiced eye, Barnett's appearance would have suggested slumber, and this impression would have been strengthened by his rather loud and rhythmical
A sharp tap on his door made him bring his feet down with a jerk
and sit bolt upright.
'No! It can't be! The heat must be affecting my eyesight.' Barnett
affected elaborate astonishment...
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