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Nick Platt is a British lawyer working in Moscow in the early 2000s—a place where the cascade of oil money, the tightening grip of the government, the jostling of the oligarchs, and the loosening of Soviet...
Nick Platt is a British lawyer working in Moscow in the early 2000s—a place where the cascade of oil money, the tightening grip of the government, the jostling of the oligarchs, and the loosening of Soviet social mores have led to a culture where corruption, decadence, violence, and betrayal define everyday life. Nick doesn’t ask too many questions about the shady deals he works on—he’s too busy enjoying the exotic, surreally sinful nightlife Moscow has to offer.
One day in the subway, he rescues two willowy sisters, Masha and Katya, from a would-be purse snatcher. Soon Nick, the seductive Masha, and long-limbed Katya are cruising the seamy glamour spots of the city. Nick begins to feel something for Masha that he is pleased to think is love. Then the sisters ask Nick to help their aged aunt, Tatiana, find a new apartment.
Of course, nothing is as it seems—including this extraordinary debut novel. The twists in the story take it far beyond its noirish frame—the sordid and vivid portrayal of Moscow serves as a backdrop for a book that examines the irresistible allure of sin, featuring characters whose hearts are as cold as the Russian winter.
SHORTLISTED for the 2011 Man Booker Prize for Fiction
"[An] assured fiction debut....[Miller] memorably captures the city's atmosphere during the glitzy, anything-goes era that succeeded Soviet Communism....Miller's uncluttered prose and feel for the city's Wild West atmosphere are pleasures."--The Seattle Times
"Compelling narrative voice….Andrew Miller shines in his depiction of Russian life….[and] deserves full credit for being able to transfer his knowledge to the page. He makes you see and feel the glitz, squalor, and violence of Moscow...[with] bleak beauty of his writing"--Boston Globe
"[A]n electrifying tour of the dark side of Moscow, and of human nature.....This is a Russia gleaming with strip joints, call girls, malevolent overlords, fraudsters, overnight millionaires; but in which the old beg on snowy streets and tramps ring random doorbells seeking shelter from hypothermic death. The overriding theme is corruption and the way that morals can become corroded, but the novel is multi-layered; subtle rather than strident, and imbued with a bruised beauty.....[Miller] is masterful at capturing small details....a gorgeously crafted story of a man hurtling into love.....Snowdrops, in a different way, assaults all your senses with its power and poetry, and leaves you stunned and addicted."
"The wonderfully evoked corrupt atmosphere of modern Moscow, a dangerous mix of extreme poverty and decadent wealth, of simple old-fashioned values and unrestrained debauchery reads like Graham Greene on steroids.....Tightly written, with fascinating insider detail gained in three years as The Economist magazine’s Moscow correspondent, Miller’s complex, gripping debut novel is undoubtedly the real thing."
--The Daily Mail
"AD Miller’s elegant and compact literary thriller...offers an alluring yet chilling portrait of the city...the pleasure of Miller’s first novel is divining the precise nature of the deceptions, and self-deceptions, taking place. A superlative portrait of a country in which everything has its price, Snowdrops displays a worldly confidence reminiscent of Robert Harris at his best."
"AD Miller’s engrossing debut...offers an entirely believable portrait of a man complicit in Moscow’s moral freefall...Miller brilliantly showcases the city as his novel’s strutting, charismatic star...rendered with intoxicating vitality. It is a bravura setting for a study in morality...disturbing and dazzling."
"A deeply atmospheric, slow-burning examination of the effects of modern Russia on the soul of foreign visitors, and of one man’s subtle but inexorable slide into moral decay...beautifully drawn and mirrored in several ingenious subplots...Miller is absolutely wonderful at evoking the seediness and cynicism of Moscow...The Russian seasons, from the sadistic winter to the sweltering summer, are evoked with scintillating clarity."
--The Independent Sunday
"AD Miller’s artful and atmospheric first novel...shows him accomplished in control of narrative voice and characterisation."
--The Sunday Times
"A mesmerizing tale of a man seduced by a culture he fancies himself above, Miller’s novel is both a nuanced character study and a fascinating look at the complexities of Russian society."
--Booklist, starred review
"Superbly atmospheric....elegantly written, and spot on in detail"-- London Observer
"A.D. Miller's Snowdrops has no lack of kineticism. Without succumbing to the implausible or to the inclusion of a surfeit of incident, it exerts terrific gravity.....[and] strips away the layers of life in the Russian capital with subtle, pitiless grace.....Paced almost ideally, with an atmosphere that scintillates with beguiling menace, Snowdrops deserves...to enjoy substantial popular success."---Literary Review
"Riveting tale....it is his insider knowledge of the city [that] marks this one out"--The Bookseller
"A sense of foreboding pervades this quietly intense novel, set in a freewheeling Russia of the early 21st century....gripping....A lesson in the art of self-delusion and the dog-eat-dog society of post-Soviet Russia, it's sure to be an instant success.....Essential for committed readers of fiction and a discussion feast for book clubs"--Library Journal
"A highly entertaining literary debut. His description is whip-smart, his story as addictive and powerful as chilled vodka and his throbbing Moscow is a worthy update on the classic post-Second World War noir city."--Sainsbury's Magazine
"[A] chilling psychological drama....The levels of corruption and duplicity are as deep as the snow banks that line the city."--Marie Claire, UK
"We were gripped from the first page"--Grazia
"A natural storyteller, and this seamless thriller demands to be read at a sitting"--The Lady Magazine
"Intensely gripping"--Woman & Home Magazine
"A tremendously assured, cool, complex, slow-burn of a novel and a bleak and superbly atmospheric portrait of modern Russia."--William Boyd, author of A GOOD MAN IN AFRICA and ORDINARY THUNDERSTORMS
"SNOWDROPS is a beautifully written tale, a confession of evil done not in bloodlust, but in the near passivity of muddling through, of squinting to keep from seeing, and whistling to keep from hearing. By the end of this extremely engaging book, you may almost want to forgive its narrator for all the damage his posture of willful innocence has inflicted upon the world. It's in the awful weight of that ‘almost’ that A. D. Miller shows his brilliance."
--Scott Smith, author of THE RUINS
"Anybody who has spent any time in Moscow will instantly recognize the city's infamous decadence as well as its attraction in this extraordinarily evocative book - and anybody who has never been there will experience both the lure and the horror of modern Russia." –Anne Applebaum, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of GULAG
“A chilling first novel about the slide from relative innocence into amorality. I love the honesty of the writing, and the way the furious cold of a bitter Moscow winter gradually emerges as a character in its own right.”
--Julie Myerson, author of SOMETHING MIGHT HAPPEN
"SNOWDROPS is an irresistible, sophisticated and compelling thriller of darkly delicious Russian corruption and decadence, by a writer who truly understands where the corpses lie buried under the pure Russian snows."
Simon Sebag Montefiore, author of SASHENKA and YOUNG STALIN
“Miller’s taut narrative is a deft mixture of suspense, intrigue and human tragedy. Romantic love, bad faith, self-delusion, cupidity and corruption are fatally entwined in a novel that brilliantly conveys the tawdriness of life in the underbelly of modern Moscow. “–Jonathan Dimbleby, author of RUSSIA, A Journey To The Heart Of A Land And Its People
Economist editor Miller makes his fiction debut with a bleak tale of fraud and manipulation in early-21st-century Moscow.
The unbridled mayhem of the 1990s has died down a bit, but Western companies are still pouring money into the hands of newly minted Russian conglomerates, and British lawyer Nicholas Platt is writing the contracts. Meanwhile, he's enjoying the louche pleasures of Moscow nightlife. He's also enjoying the company of Masha and her sister Katya—well, actually they're not sisters—and Tatiana Vladimirovna, the old lady they introduce as their aunt, who isn't a relative either. But by the time Nicholas finds that out, he's enmeshed in a scheme whereby Tatiana will swap her apartment in the center of Moscow for new suburban digs and $50,000 in cash. The scheme is as obviously phony as the deal Nicholas is brokering between a consortium of banks and a Cossack who purports to be fronting for a company that will build "a floating oil terminal somewhere up in the Barents Sea," and Nicholas's narrative, addressed to his wife-to-be back in London, makes it clear that he more or less knew it from the start. A protagonist's willed blindness can be a strong premise (as in Jane Smiley's Good Faith, 2003), if the author makes palpable the reasons for such self-deception. Sex with Masha, a decidedly down-market temptress, just doesn't seem motive enough. Miller, formerly a Moscow correspondent forEconomist, vividly evokes the no-holds-barred atmosphere of the city in its early-capitalist stage, but it's seedy rather than alluring, and as Nicholas deliberately ignores glaring signs that he's being conned, readers may well find him stupid rather than tragically deluded. Depressive asides to his English fiancée reinforce our feeling that he deserves the comeuppance he gets.
Good local color, but nothing much to care about here.
I can at least be sure of her name. It was Maria Kovalenko, Masha to her friends. She was standing on the station platform at Ploshchad Revolyutsii, Revolution Square, when I first caught sight of her. I could see her face for about five seconds before she took out a little makeup mirror and held it in front of her. With her other hand she put on a pair of sunglasses that I remember thinking she might have just bought from a kiosk in an underpass somewhere. She was leaning against a pillar, up at the end of the platform where the civilian statues are--athletes, engineers, bosomy female farmhands, and mothers holding muscular babies. I looked at her for longer than I should have.
There's a moment at Ploshchad Revolyutsii, a visual effect that happens when you're transferring to the green line from that platform with the statues. You find yourself crossing the Metro tracks on a little elevated walkway, and on one side you can see a flotilla of disc-shaped chandeliers, stretching along the platform and away into the darkness that the trains come out of. On the other side you see other people making the same journey, only on a parallel walkway, close but separate. When I looked to the right that day I saw the girl with the sunglasses heading the same way.
I got on the train for the one-stop ride to Pushkinskaya. I stood beneath the yellow panelling and the ancient strip lighting that made me feel, every time I took the Metro, as if I was an extra in some paranoid Donald Sutherland film from the seventies. At Pushkinskaya I went up the escalator with its phallic lamps, held open the heavy glass Metro doors for the person behind me like I always used to, and made my way into the maze of low-slung underground passages beneath Pushkin Square. Then she screamed.
She was about five metres behind me, and as well as screaming she was wrestling against a thin man with a ponytail who was trying to steal her handbag (an ostentatiously fake Burberry). She was screaming for help, and the friend who had appeared alongside her--Katya, it turned out--was just screaming. To begin with, I only watched, but the man drew back his fist like he was about to punch her, and I heard someone shouting from behind me as if they were going to do something about it. I stepped forward and pulled the thin man back by his collar.
He gave up on the bag and swung his elbows at me, but they didn't reach. I let go and he lost his balance and fell. It was all over quickly and I didn't get a good enough look at him. He was young, maybe four inches shorter than me, and seemed embarrassed. He stabbed out a foot, catching me painlessly on the shin, and scrambled up to his feet and ran away down the underpass and up the stairs at the far end that led to Tverskaya--the Oxford Street of Moscow, only with lawless parking, which slopes down from Pushkin Square to Red Square. There were two policemen near the bottom of the steps, but they were too busy smoking and looking for immigrants to harass to pay the mugger any attention.
"Spasibo," said Masha. (Thank you.) She took off the sunglasses.
She was wearing tight, tight jeans tucked into knee-high brown leather boots, and a white blouse with one more button undone than there needed to be. Over the blouse she had one of those funny Brezhnev-era autumn coats that Russian women without much money often wear. If you look at them closely they seem to be made out of carpet or beach towel with a cat-fur collar, but from a distance they make the girl in the coat look like the honey trap in a Cold War thriller. She had a straight bony nose, pale skin, and long tawny hair. With a bit more luck she might have been sitting beneath the gold-leaf ceiling in some hyperpriced restaurant called the Ducal Palace or the Hunting Lodge, eating black caviar and smiling indulgently at a nickel magnate or well-connected oil trader. Perhaps that's where she is now, though somehow I doubt it.
"Oi, spasibo," said her friend, clasping the fingers of my right hand. Her hand was warm and light. I reckoned the sunglasses girl was in her early twenties, twenty-three maybe, but the friend seemed younger, nineteen or possibly even less. She was wearing white boots, a pink fake-leather miniskirt and a matching jacket. She had a little upturned nose and straight blond hair, and one of those frankly inviting Russian-girl grins, the ones that come with full-on eye contact. It was a smile like the smile of the baby Jesus we once saw--do you remember?--in that church in the village down the coast from Rimini: the old, wise smile on the young face, a smile that said I know who you are, I know what you want, I was born knowing this.
"Nichevo," I said. (It was nothing.) And again in Russian I added, "Is everything okay?"
"Vso normalno," said the sunglasses girl. (Everything is normal.)
"Kharasho," I said. (Good.)
We smiled at each other. My glasses had steamed up in the cloying year-round warmth of the Metro. One of the CD kiosks in the passageway was playing folk music, I remember, the lyrics choked out by one of those drunken Russian chanteurs who sound like they must have started smoking in the womb.
In a parallel universe, in another life, that's the end of the story. We say good-bye, I go home that afternoon and back to my lawyering the next day. Maybe in that life I'm still there, still in Moscow, maybe I found another job and stayed, never came home, and never met you. The girls go on to whoever and whatever it would have been if it hadn't been me. But I was flushed with that feeling you get when a risky thing goes well and the high of having done something good. A noble deed in a ruthless place. I was a small-time hero, they'd let me be one, and I was grateful.
The younger one carried on smiling, but the older one was just looking. She was taller than her friend, five nine or ten, and in her heels her green eyes were level with mine. They are lovely eyes. Someone had to say something, and she said, in English, "Where are you from?"
I said, "I'm from London." I'm not from London originally, as you know, but it's close enough. In Russian I asked, "And where are you from?"
"Now we live here in Moscow," she said. I was used to this language game by then. The Russian girls always said they wanted to practise their English. But sometimes they also wanted to make you feel that you were in charge, in their country but safe in your own language.
There was another smiling pause.
"Tak, spasibo," said the friend. (So, thank you.)
None of us moved. Then Masha said, "To where are you going?"
"Home," I said. "Where are you going?"
"We are only walking."
"Poguliaem," I said. (Let's walk.)
And we did.
It was the middle of September. It's the time of year Russians call grandma's summer--a bittersweet lick of velvety warmth that used to arrive after the peasant women had brought in their harvests, and now in Moscow means last-gasp outdoor drinking in the squares and around the Bulvar (the lovely old road around the Kremlin that has stretches of park between the lanes, with lawns, benches, and statues of famous writers and forgotten revolutionaries). It's the nicest time to visit, though I'm not certain we ever will. The stalls outside the Metro stations were laying out their fake-fur Chinese gloves for the coming winter, but there were still long lines of tourists waiting to file through Lenin's freak-show tomb in Red Square. In the hot afternoons half the women in the city were still wearing almost nothing.
We came up the smooth narrow steps from the underground passages beneath the square, arriving outside the Armenian supermarket. We crossed the gridlocked lanes of traffic to the broad pavement in the middle of the Bulvar. There was only one cloud in the sky, plus a fluffy plume of smoke flying up from a factory or inner-city power plant, just visible against the early evening blue. It was beautiful. The air smelled of cheap petrol, grilled meat, and lust.
The older one asked, in English, "What is your job in Moscow, if it is not secret?"
"I am a lawyer," I said in Russian.
They spoke to each other very quickly, too fast and low for me to understand. The younger one said, "For how much years you have been in Moscow?"
"Four years," I said. "Nearly four years."
"Are you liking it?" said the sunglasses girl. "Are you liking our Moscow?"
I said that I liked it very much, which is what I thought she'd want to hear. Most of them had a sort of automatic national pride, I'd discovered, even if all they wanted for themselves was to get the hell out of there and head for Los Angeles or the Côte d'Azur.
"And what do you do?" I asked her in Russian.
"I am working in shop. For mobile phones."
"Where is your shop?"
"Across river," she said. "Close to Tretyakov Gallery." After a few silent paces she added, "You speak beautiful Russian."
She exaggerated. I spoke better Russian than most of the carpetbagging bankers and mountebank consultants in the city--the pseudo-posh Englishmen, strong-toothed Americans, and misleading Scandinavians the black-gold rush had brought to Moscow, who mostly managed to shuttle between their offices, gated apartments, expense-account brothels, upscale restaurants, and the airport on twenty-odd words. I was on my way to being fluent, but my accent still gave me away halfway through my first syllable. Masha and Katya must have clocked me as a foreigner even before I opened my mouth. I suppose I was easy to spot. It was a Sunday, and I was on my way home from some awkward expat get-together in a lonely accountant's flat. I was wearing newish jeans and suede boots, I remember, and a dark V-neck sweater with a Marks & Spencer's shirt underneath. People didn't dress like that in Moscow. Anybody with money went in for film-star shirts and Italian shoes, and everybody without money, which was most people, wore contraband army surplus or cheap Belarussian boots and bleak trousers.
Masha, on the other hand, was authentically beautiful in English, even if her grammar was shaky. Some Russian women shoot up into a sort of overelocutioned squeak when they speak English, but she had a voice that dropped down, almost to a growl, hungrily rolling her Rs. Her voice sounded like it had been through an all-night party. Or a war.
We were walking towards the beer tents that go up for the summer on the first warm day in May, when the whole city takes to the streets and anything can happen, and are folded up again in October when grandma's summer is over.
"Tell me, please," said the younger one. "My friend said me that in England you have two . . ." She broke off to confer with her companion in Russian. I heard "hot," "cold," "water."
"What is it called," the older one said, "where water comes? In bathroom?"
"Yes, taps," the younger one went on. "My friend said me that in England there is two taps. So hot water sometimes is burning her hand."
"Da," I said. "Eta pravda." (Yes, it's true.) We were on a path in the middle of the Bulvar, near some seesaws and wobbly slides. A fat babushka was selling apples.
"And is it true," she said, "that in London is always big fog?"
"Nyet," I said. "A hundred years ago, yes, but not anymore."
She looked down at the ground. Masha, the sunglasses girl, smiled. When I think back on what I liked about her that first afternoon, apart from the long firm gazelle body, and the voice, and her eyes, it was the irony. She had an air that suggested she already knew how it would end, and almost wanted me to know that too. Maybe this is just how it seems to me now, but in a way I think she was already apologising. I think that, for her, people and their actions were somehow separate--as if you could just bury whatever you did and forget about it, as if your past belonged to someone else.
We reached the junction with my street. I had that drunk feeling that, before you, I always used to get in the company of premier-league women--half nervous, half rash, like I was acting, like I was living in someone else's life and had to make the most of it while I could.
I gestured and said "I live over here." Then I heard myself say, "Would you like to come up for some tea?"
You'll think it sounds ridiculous, I know--me trying it on like that. But only a couple of years before, when foreigners were still considered exotic in Moscow and a lawyer was someone with a salary worth saying yes to, it might have worked. It had worked.
She said no.
"But if it is interesting for you to call us," she said, "you may." She looked at her friend, who took a pen from the pocket above her left breast and wrote a phone number on the back of a trolleybus ticket. She held it out to me, and I took it.
"My name is Masha," she said. "This is Katya. She is my sister."
"I'm Nick," I said. Katya leaned against me in her pink skirt and kissed me on the cheek. She smiled the other smile that they have, the Asiatic smile that means nothing. They walked away down the Bulvar, and I watched them for longer than I should have.
The Bulvar was full of boozers and sleepers and kissers. Gangs of teenagers clustered around squatting guitarists. It was still warm enough for all the windows of the restaurant on the corner of my street to be thrown open, ventilating the minigarch and midrange hooker crowd that used to congregate there in the summer. I had to walk in the road to avoid the long, unimaginative sequence of black Mercedeses and Hummers that had overrun the pavements around it. I turned into my street and walked along the side of the mustard-coloured church on the way to my flat.
I guess it might actually have been another day--maybe the image just seems to belong with the meeting on the Metro, so I remember them together--but in my mind it was the same evening that I first noticed the old Zhiguli. It was on my side of the street, sandwiched between two BMWs like a ghost of Russia past or the answer to a simple odd-one-out puzzle. It was shaped like a child's drawing of a car: a box on wheels, with another box on top in which the child might add a stick-man driver and his steering wheel, and silly round headlights on which, if he was feeling exuberant, the child would circle pupils to make them look like eyes. It was the sort of car that most of the men in Moscow had once spent half their lives waiting to buy, or so they were always telling you, saving and coveting and putting their names on waiting lists to get one, only to find--after the wall came down, they got America on TV and their better-connected compatriots got late-model imports--that even their dreams had been shabby. It was hard to be sure, but this one had probably once been a sort of rusty orange colour. It had mud and oil up its flanks, like a tank might after a battle--a dark crust that, if you were frank with yourself, you knew was how your insides looked after a few years in Moscow, and maybe your soul too.
1. Is Nick Platt, the narrator of Snowdrops, a good man who turns bad, a bad man to start with, or neither?
2. Towards the end of the book, Nick says that Masha “had a better excuse.” Do you think Snowdrops is at heart a story about corrupt Russians or corruptible westerners?
3. How far should Nick’s behaviour be explained by his circumstances and opportunities in Moscow, and how far by his own temperament and psychology?
4. At what point did Nick begin to question his own motives and sense of ethics?
5. When Nick visits Tatiana Vladimirovna’s apartment for the first time, he says that he “liked her immediately, and…liked her right ‘til the end.” Is that true? If so, why doesn’t it affect how he behaves?
6. Do Nick’s feelings for his fiancée change as he is recounting his tale? How does the relationship implied in the framing device interact with or reinforce his Moscow story?
7. There are several plots in Snowdrops: the main drama involving Tatiana Vladimirovna; the one featuring the Cossack and the floating oil terminal; and the story of Nick’s neighbour, Oleg Nikolaevich, and his missing friend. How do these plots relate to each other?
8. At the beginning of the story, Nick tries to be kind to Oleg Nikolaevich. By the end of it, he is less kind and spends much less time with him. Who suffers most as a result?
9. “I liked the Cossack,” Nick says after their first meeting: “Something about him was endearing...It might be better to say I envied him.” What does he mean by that?
10. At the heart of the novel is Nick’s trip to the dacha in the forest with Masha and Katya: “my happiest time,” he says; “the time I would always go back to if I could”. What does Nick learn at the dacha—about the women and about himself?
11. How much, if anything, of what Masha and Katya tell Nick about themselves do you think is true?
12. The exact years that Nick lives in Moscow aren’t specified in the book. But, thinking about the attitudes of the lawyers and bankers in the story, do you think Snowdrops is amongst other things a pre-credit crunch tale?
13. At the end of Snowdrops, Nick says that when he thinks about what happened to him during his last winter in Moscow, “there is guilt”. But then he qualifies that by saying “there is some guilt”. Is Nick really sorry for what he did during his last winter in Moscow? Does he understand how serious it was?
14. At one point Nick describes the winter as an “annual oblivion…like temporary amnesia for a bad conscience”. What role do snow and the weather play in Snowdrops?
15. A snowdrop, as Nick’s friend Steve explains to him, is a body that lies buried or hidden in the snow, emerging only in the thaw. What does the image of the snowdrop symbolise in Snowdrops?
Posted August 17, 2011
I picked up this book because it made the watch list for the Man Booker Prize. I figured if it got that far, it might be interesting. I was pleased. A.D. Miller is a wonderful story teller. And, it is amazing how a letter from a man to his fiancee, in part a confession and in part a plea for understanding, can turn on so many dimes to finally say that everything was a farce. Nicholas, a London lawyer in a Moscow law firm during the beginning of Russian rebirth, is involved in basic transactional legal work. His social life includes one friend, Steve Walsh, and visits to strip clubs and an occasional date with an acquaintance or a professional. Still, he likes Russia and the different cities Moscow becomes in the winter, and in the non-winter. He helps two young ladies, engages in a conversation, and offers them a telephone number. They call a few weeks later, and what he thought was his attractiveness to the beautiful Masha (and Katya), is really just the means to an end. Juxtaposed with the death of his neighbor's friend, a snowdrop not found until after the thaw, and the theft of an old woman's home, Nicholas becomes the same unscrupled wolf in sheep's clothing as a client bilking banks of millions of dollars. But, when he finds out, his only real wonder is whether Masha ever cared for him, or just used him. Was it personal? Was it business? What is a lost soul -- personal or business. And, as he makes a final confession at the end of the book, the reader must decide what Nicholas may have learned. Can I get caught up in such a mess? This book demanded that I answer this question. It is a good read, a relatively quick read, and the first of several books I hope that A.D. Miller writes.
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Posted October 7, 2012
I liked the idea of the story, and I love novels about Russia. But this one was simply too short. The characters were underdeveloped, but I did want to know them. The protagonist's love/hate relationship with Russia grew tiresome.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
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