The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds (Isabel Dalhousie Series #9)

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Nothing captures the charm of Edinburgh like the bestselling Isabel Dalhousie series of novels featuring the insatiably curious philosopher and woman detective.  Whether investigating a case or a problem of philosophy, the indefatigable Isabel Dalhousie, one of fiction’s most richly developed amateur detectives, is always ready to pursue the ...

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The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds (Isabel Dalhousie Series #9)

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Nothing captures the charm of Edinburgh like the bestselling Isabel Dalhousie series of novels featuring the insatiably curious philosopher and woman detective.  Whether investigating a case or a problem of philosophy, the indefatigable Isabel Dalhousie, one of fiction’s most richly developed amateur detectives, is always ready to pursue the answers to all of life’s questions, large and small.

In this latest installment of Alexander McCall Smith’s endearing Isabel Dalhousie series, the Edinburgh philosopher and amateur sleuth answers an unexpected appeal from a wealthy Scottish collector who has been robbed of a valuable painting.

One afternoon over coffee at Cat’s delicatessen, a friend of Isabel’s shares a call for help from Duncan Munrowe. Crafty thieves have stolen a prized painting from his collection, a work by the celebrated French artist Nicolas Poussin that was earmarked for donation to the Scottish National Gallery. Munrowe has been approached by the thieves and hopes that Isabel will assist him in recovering the painting. Never one to refuse an appeal, she agrees, and discovers that the thieves may be closer to the owner than he ever would have expected.

Against the backdrop of this intriguing case, Isabel copes with life’s issues, large and small. She and Jamie have begun to suspect that their three-year-old son, Charlie, might be a budding mathematical genius. What should be done about it? Then there is the question of whether Isabel should help a young couple who want to move in together—against the wishes of the girl’s parents. The boyfriend is hoping Isabel might intercede.

As she wrestles with these problems, Isabel finds herself tested as a parent, a philosopher and a friend. But, as always, she manages to use the right combination of good sense, quick wits and a kind heart to come to the right solution, proving once again why Isabel Dalhousie has become one of Alexander McCall Smith’s most beloved characters.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Praise for the Isabel Dalhousie series
“McCall Smith’s talent for dialogue is matched only by his gift for characterization. It’s hard to believe that he could make up a character as complex and unique as Isabel. She is by turns fearless, vulnerable, headstrong and insecure, but always delightful.”
 —Chicago Tribune
“Readers get to soak up the cozy atmosphere of this Scottish university town and McCall Smith’s gentle good will.”
—The Boston Globe
“Entertaining and enchanting reading about characters you think you know—and wish you did.”
—Las Vegas Review-Journal
“McCall Smith’s contemporary cozies have proved that crimes need not be punishable by death to provide a satisfying read . . . A genteel, wisdom-filled entertainment.”
—Los Angeles Times
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307990808
  • Publisher: Diversified Publishing
  • Publication date: 10/23/2012
  • Series: Isabel Dalhousie Series, #9
  • Edition description: Large Print
  • Pages: 384
  • Product dimensions: 6.10 (w) x 9.10 (h) x 1.00 (d)

Meet the Author

Alexander McCall Smith

Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the beloved bestselling No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, the Isabel Dalhousie series, the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series, the 44 Scotland Street series, and the Corduroy Mansions series. He is also the author of numerous children’s books. He is professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh and has served with many national and international organizations concerned with bioethics. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and taught law at the University of Botswana. He lives in Scotland. Visit his website at

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Read an Excerpt

Mozart,” said Isabel Dalhousie. And then she added, “Srinivasa Ramanujan.”
From his side of the kitchen table, Jamie, her husband of one year, lover of more than four, looked up quizzically. “Mozart, of course, but Srini . . .” He attempted the name, but decided he could not manage it and trailed off into a liquid melt of vees and sibilants. Indian names, mellifluous sounding though so many of them may be, can defeat even those with a musical ear. Jamie was accustomed to the stocky sound of Scottish names, redolent as they were of an altogether more forbidding and windswept landscape—those Macdonalds and Macgregors, Macleans and Mackays.
“Srinivasa Ramanujan,” Isabel repeated. “He was, like Mozart, a child prodigy. A genius.”
“I used to be so discouraged by Mozart,” said Jamie. “I suspect he has that effect on any child who’s interested in music. You hear about how he was composing complicated pieces at the age of five, or whatever, and you think, I’m already twelve—which is ancient by comparison—and I haven’t written anything. And it makes you ask yourself whether there’s much point in making all that effort.” He paused. “But what about this Srinivasa?”
“He was a brilliant mathematician back in his day,” said Isabel. She made a gesture that indicated the earlier part of the twentieth century—or at least did so to her; to Jamie it was no more than a vague movement of the hand. “He died when he was barely into his forties.”
“Like Mozart. What age was he when he died? Thirty-five, wasn’t he?”
Isabel nodded. “Which prompts the usual thoughts of what might have been.”
“Of music lost,” said Jamie. He had noticed that people invariably said something like that when the shortness of Mozart’s life was mentioned. What he could have done if he had lived another ten years, another twenty . . . the symphonies, the operas . . .
Isabel reached for her teacup. “Yes. And in the case of Ramanujan, of problems unsolved. But that’s not what interests me. I’ve been thinking of the parents and of their role in their children’s lives. Mozart’s father spent a very large part of his time on his children’s musical education. Teaching him to compose, taking him on those long tours. A pushy father, if ever there was one.”
“And Srinivasa . . . what about his parents?”
Isabel smiled. “He had a mother to contend with. She doted on him. She said that he was the special gift of the household’s private god. She was a mathematician too.”
“So the best chance of being a prodigy is to have an obsessive parent?”
Isabel agreed, but only to an extent. She believed in nurture, but she gave more weight to nature. “You have to have the right genes in the first place. Mozart’s sister had the same upbringing as he did, with the same musical attention. She became a very competent performer but she was not a musical genius.”
Jamie looked up at the ceiling. “Imagine being Mozart’s sister . . .”
“Yes, imagine. That bit—the genius bit—has to be there somewhere in the brain. It’s probably a matter of brain design, of neuro-anatomy. Mozart had it; his sister clearly didn’t.”
Jamie called that the wiring. Badness, he thought, was usually a question of faulty wiring; Isabel was not so sure. “I read about a rather interesting case of mathematical genius,” she said. “Nabokov.”
“The author? The one who wrote Lolita?”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “Nabokov was a mathematical prodigy as a child. He could do elaborate calculations in his head, within seconds.”
Jamie was interested. Musicians were often competent or even more than competent mathematicians—the wiring, perhaps, was similar. At school his best subject, after music, had been mathematics, and yet he had always had to approach it slowly, even ploddingly. “How do they do it? I just can’t im-agine how it’s possible. Do they have to think it through, or does the answer come to them automatically, just like that?”
Isabel said that she thought they had their tricks—systems that allowed them to make seemingly instantaneous calculations, just as people with exceptional memories had their mnemonics. “Some of it, though, comes to them instantly because they just know it.” She took a sip of her iced tea, and looked at Jamie. “You wouldn’t have to think, would you, if I asked you what number multiplied by itself gives you nine.” She smiled encouragingly. “Would you?”
“You didn’t have to work that out?”
Jamie replied that the answer had simply been there. He had, in fact, seen the figure 3.
“Then perhaps it’s the same for them,” said Isabel. “The work is done at a subconscious level—the conscious mind doesn’t even know it’s being done.” She returned to Nabokov. “He was capable of amazing calculations and then suddenly he became ill with a very high fever. When he recovered his mathematical ability had gone. Just like that.”
“The fever affected the brain?”
“Yes. Burned out the wiring, as you might say.”
“How strange.”
“Yes. Very.”
They looked at one another wordlessly. Each knew that the other was thinking of their young son, Charlie, now an energetic three-and-three-quarter-year-old; energetic, but currently asleep in his bedroom on that summer morning that was already growing hot. An uncharacteristic heat wave had descended on Edinburgh and the east of Scotland. It brought with it not only a summer languor, but the scent of the country into the town—cut hay, baked hillsides, heather that was soon to flower purple, the sea at Cramond . . .
Isabel broke the silence. “So what exactly did he say?”
Jamie’s reply was hesitant. “I think it was something like this. You know those bricks of his—the yellow ones?”
Isabel did. They had on them bright pictures of ducks engaged in various pursuits—driving a train, drinking tea, flying in small biplanes—and Charlie adored them, even to the extent of secreting one of them under his pillow at night. One could love anything as a child, she thought; a teddy bear, a security blanket, a yellow brick . . .
“There were twenty bricks,” Jamie went on. “We counted them. And he counted with me, all the way up to twenty—which is impressive enough, if you ask me. But then I said, ‘Let’s take half of them away.’ I don’t know why I said it—I hadn’t imagined that he’d be able to cope with the concept of halves. But you know what he said? He said, ‘Ten.’ Just like that. He said, ‘Ten.’ ”
There was more. “Then I said, ‘All right, let’s put eight bricks here and take half of those away.’ And he said, ‘Four.’ He didn’t even seem to think about it.”
Isabel was listening intently. Had Charlie ever done anything similar for her? She did not think so. He had asked some perceptive questions, though, and one or two of them had startled her. The other day, apropos of nothing, he had suddenly said, “Brother Fox know something? Know not a dog?” She had been momentarily taken aback but had replied, “I think he knows that.” Then she had quizzed him as to why he had asked her this, but his attention had been caught by something else and he had simply said, “Foxes and dogs,” before moving on to another, quite different subject. For Isabel’s part, she had been left with a question that had become increasingly intriguing the more she thought about it. Brother Fox presumably instinctively understood that dogs were not part of his world, but did that mean that he had some concept of foxdom? Probably not.
“So then I tried something different,” Jamie continued. “I took nine bricks and asked him to put them in three piles that were all the same. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Three.’ He said, ‘Three bricks, here, here, here.’ ”
Isabel looked thoughtful. “Division. It sounds impressive, but is it all that unusual?”
Jamie shrugged. “I asked them at the nursery school. They said children of four should be able to add and count up to five. They said nothing about division, or multiplication. Just counting.”
“Or the piano,” added Isabel.
“Or that. I told them that he can do a C major scale and they said something about his hands still being quite small and it must be difficult for that reason. They didn’t seem all that interested.”
Isabel imagined that there were numerous parents who believed their children to have prodigious skills and boasted to teachers about it. She did not want to be one of them; and yet if the child was really talented, then shouldn’t the nursery at least know?
From upstairs there came the sound of a high-pitched voice—something between a chuckle and a shout. Charlie was awake.
“I’ll go,” said Jamie.
Isabel nodded. “We’ll need to talk about it. About what we do—if anything.”
He gave her a searching look. “Do about what? About his being good at numbers? You think we should ignore it rather than encourage it?”
“I’m just not sure that it’s in his interests. Would he be any happier if we encouraged him to be a mathematical prodigy?” And there was something else that worried her: being a pushy mother. All mothers were pushy to an extent: one did not have to look far in the natural world to see mothers being pushy for their offspring—any self-respecting lioness would make sure her cubs got their fair share—but there were limits . . . “I don’t think we should push him too much.”
Jamie frowned. He encountered pushy parents in his work, and one in particular came to mind. She had written to him recently asking whether her son’s innate musical ability was being adequately recognised and whether he was ready for a public performance. Jamie did not want the stage of the Usher Hall for Charlie, although if it came to that, he and Isabel would of course be in the front row. And Charlie would come onstage and need a box to stand on to climb on to the piano stool; or perhaps have his teddy bear carefully seated on the stool next to him while the conductor raised his baton to bring the accompanying orchestra to order. The frown became a smile. “Can one ignore something like that? Wouldn’t that be to waste it?”
Isabel did not have time to answer. Another cry came from Charlie, more urgent now, followed by a rattling of the bars at the top of his bed. Jamie began to leave the kitchen but turned at the door and said, “Mozart was quite happy being Mozart, you know. He liked billiards. He kept a canary—and a horse. He enjoyed practical jokes.”
Isabel reflected on this while Jamie was upstairs. To play billiards, to keep a canary and a horse, and to enjoy practical jokes—were very ordinary things like that the recipe for an enjoyable life?

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Reading Group Guide

The questions, discussion topics, and suggested reading list that follow are intended to enhance your group’s conversation about The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds, the latest episode in the adventures of Isabel Dalhousie, Edinburgh’s moral philosopher and amateur sleuth.

1. Martha Drummond is a person Isabel finds “slightly irritating” (14). Is Isabel right in thinking that people like Martha simply lack social judgment and can’t pick up on certain cues? Or is Jamie more accurate in thinking that such people have idiosyncrasies in the “wiring” of their brains (19)? How does Martha test Isabel’s skills in patience and kindness?

2. Martha tells Isabel, “You’ve got money. You live in that fantastic house. You’ve got that man of yours. Everything. You’ve got everything” (29). Why does this statement make Isabel so uncomfortable? Is Martha right in thinking that Isabel’s life is enviable?

3. How does the discovery that Grace is working with Charlie on math change the perspective on Charlie as a potentially “gifted” child? Does Grace have the right, as the child’s caretaker, to engage him in such a project without first discussing it with histhe child’s parents (63)? What is unusual about Isabel’s relationship with Grace?

4. In Isabel’s work on the Review of Applied Ethics, she has to think rigorously about ethical questions. One such question, raised in a paper she is considering for publication, asks whether “we can owe duties to people we do not know,” including those of future generations. Do you agree with her thinking about the importance of not causing “future harm to people who will exist” (12)? Do you think you would enjoy Isabel’s job?

5. Seeing the empty place on the wall where the Poussin painting had hung, Isabel thinks about the possible motivations of the thief: “What better way of dealing with sheer envy than stealing the thing of which you feel so envious” (11268). Is envy ultimately behind the theft of the painting?

6. Eddie has fallen in love with a young woman callnamed Diane. Why do her parents disapprove of Eddie? What happens to Eddie’s relationship and why does he seem so comfortable with it (84–-87, 249–-50)?

7. Readers of the earlier books in the series may feel relieved that Eddie is finally confiding in Isabel about a traumatic event in his past, and his fear of being ill as a result of it. Isabel offers to go with him to a clinic so that he can be tested. What is most impressive or moving about the way Isabel extends the comfort of her friendship in this scene (91)?

8. Isabel thinks about the “naked effrontery” of the theft of the painting, and ofin all deliberate crime. “By his acts, the criminal effectively said to the victim: You don’t matter.” Do you agree with Isabel that this is “the most fundamentally wrong of all attitudes” (114)? How does this attitude come into play in small, non-criminal ways in everyday life?

9. Whoever has stolen the painting has chosen the one that Duncan loves best,— he says, “as if they wanted to hurt me,” he says (115). Isabel has noticed that Duncan seems uncomfortable with homosexuality; she has also learned that Duncan has a difficult relationship with his son, Patrick, who is gay. One of the men in the van refers to Duncan as “Pop,” as Patrick does (198). Does the construction of the plot lead you to believe that Patrick is responsible?

10. The lawyer Heather Darndt, speaking of the historical injustices that led to the unequal distribution of Scotland’s wealth, seems to imply that the theft of the painting was justifiable. What do you think of her argument (130–-31)? If Heather Darndt is right about her historical facts, why does Isabel believe she is wrong in her conclusions, and also in her professional role in the situation (132–-34)?

11. Isabel is a bit annoyed that Martha has volunteered Isabel’s help to Duncan (26), but she quickly becomes involved. The situation becomes potentially dangerous when Isabel and Duncan go to meet the men in the van (180–-85). Did Isabel put herself in danger by going along on such a mission with a near -stranger? Is it surprising that she goes along, and that Jamie allows her to go?

12. What do you make of Alex Munrowe’s suggestion that Isabel think of Patrick as a potential suspect? How does Alex come across in her meeting with Isabel in Chapter 11? Is it surprising that she suggests her brother may be the thief (1610)?

13. After Isabel’s meeting with Alex Munrowe, she tells Jamie about the missing cucumber sandwiches (167–68). How does this little episode demonstrate Isabel’s idiosyncrasy as a thinker (168-70)? What does Alex’s failure to provide the sandwiches suggest about promises and manners as forms of ethical behavior?

14. What do you think of Isabel’s strategy to resolve the problem (Chapter 16)? Who stole the painting, and why?

15. In a moment of extreme tension, as the thieves show Isabel and Duncan the stolen painting, “Isabel noticed the sky, saw the intense Poussin blue, saw the clouds; that was her abiding impression—the clouds” (183). Why is this such an interesting and painful moment in the story? Isabel reflects upon clouds on a couple of other occasions as well. What significance do you find in the novel’s title?

16. Isabel is often reminded of lines from poems, and particularly those of her favorite poet, W. H. Auden. In one of the earlier books in this series, The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday, the narrator noted that “little snatches of poetry provided their modicum of comfort, their islands of meaning that we all needed to keep the nothingness at bay; or at least Isabel felt that she needed them

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 20 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 20 Customer Reviews
  • Posted March 11, 2013

    One more success!

    I LOVE this series by McCall-Smith. He has a knack of developing a very believable main character with great insight and plenty of wisdom to impart. I love the situation of Isabel who has to shuffle a career, marriage to a younger man and motherhood. Throw in a crazy niece and an eccentric housekeeper with a lot of really bizarre situations in the mix, and McCall -Smith captivates us with a novel of intrigue and common sense. Since I have now visited Edinburgh, I feel like I can relate to Isabel and her world. The author's word pictures are true to life when it comes to Scotland.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 18, 2013

    New Book Will Please Isabel Dalhousie Fans

    Isabel Dalhousie is my least favorite Alexander McCall Smith heroes--she is a bit too aware of her own intellectual and ethical superiority, and is annoyingly self-contained--but this latest book meets all the criteria for her fans. There is a vague mystery, wonderfully descriptive scenes of Edinburgh and Scotland, an interesting depiction of the Scottish gentry, and lots of philosophical pondering.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 7, 2014



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  • Posted June 27, 2014

    Delightful, easy read.

    I do recommend that if you have not read this series, you start with the first one., "The Sunday Philosophy Club." These are just really interesting character studies and a joy to read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 21, 2013


    Yep. Cam is at tiger res2 and im skycloud the mom.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 11, 2013

    more from this reviewer

    A "Must Read."

    If you are a fan of the Isabel Dalhousie series, you will enjoy #9. I am a big fan of Alexander McCall Smith so I love everything he writes.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 31, 2012

    The warriors den.

    This is the warriors den. It's warm in leaf-bare and cool in late new-leaf. There are plenty of nests.


    0 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 11, 2012

    thoughtful, comfy read.

    Pull up a chair, sip hot chocolate, read and smile. I love this whole series and this is the perfect addition.

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  • Posted November 19, 2012

    Mystery solved by Dalhousie

    Enjoyed another love-mystery by classy Isabel. McCall Smith's stories are such a delight!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 8, 2012


    Poor cloudkit:(

    0 out of 7 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 8, 2012


    Poor Cloudkit. :(

    0 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 7, 2012

    The Story of CloudClan- Prologue Part 3 (Chapter 1 in Next result)

    Stormstar's tears erupted from his fire-colored eyes, staining his mate's white fur to a gray wherever the salted water touched."W-why me?!" He wailed. "Why me? Why not anyone else? I-I loved her so much." Memories flashed in front of his eyes: he and Snowgaze wrestling together as kits, training together as young, eager apprentices, fighting the enemy Clans as young warriors, chuckling as they showed each other their first battle scars, him tenderly licking her growing stomach…
    Finally, Stormstar stood up, his eyes still clouded with pain. His mate, his family he had so eagerly wanted to start, his longing to help his Clan in anyway possible, his reason to live… gone. All gone. Sniffing, he got a hold of himself and looked down at the kit still trying to suckle, even though her attempts were quickly becoming futile.
    Suddenly, the love he felt for it suddenly became a burning hatred. Snarling, he unsheathed his claws. This stupid, disgusting runt! /She/ was the one who had wrecked this family. /She/ was the one who killed her mother. /She/ was the one that had ruined his life! All of his accusications, all of his hate, all of his contempt, was going toward /her/.
    With an insane screech, he lashed out at the tiny she kit who was trying to suckle. He did not want her to touch his beloved mate. The kit started to cry silently, blood leaking from the wound he had inflicted. He did not care about it. He didn't even care about Snowgaze's hope that he would care for it. "Why don't you heal it yourself?" He mocked. He felt a feeling he had never felt before, a feeling he had not wanted to feel before, but a feeling he loved now, a feeling that he wanted to pump through his powerful, hard muscles, to make him stronger.
    Yowling with pleasure, Stormstar nipped at the she-kit's tail, savoring her screams. He lashed out at her stomach. She screamed, and he chuckled, knowing if he went any deeper, she would've died. But he didn't want her to die. He wanted her to live as long as he lived, which were six more, good long lives, to get all his anger out on.
    He was ready to give her another blow, when the medicine cat, Nightfang, ran in. "I heard mews of pain," he mewed. "Is everything all right?"
    Stormstar sat up, and sheathed his claws, hoping the dark cat hadn't seen the silver points of death. "She crawled out of the nursery into the thornbushes," he lied. He smiled inwardly at how sorrowful he could make his voice sound. "I had to pull her out, which may have inflicted more wounds. See to her, will you please?"
    Nightfang nodded, not a trace of suspicion in his eyes, and started to lick the kit's scratches. Stormstar looked on, angry at how soothing the medicine cat's licks were. He did not want this kit to survive without a single open wound on her. Oh no. This kit had wrecked his life, so she had to pay.
    Cloudkit would pay.

    0 out of 7 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 7, 2012

    Why is this not available in an audio version? I have a Nook bu

    Why is this not available in an audio version? I have a Nook but
    you can't read it while driving.

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    Posted November 28, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

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    Posted June 24, 2013

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    Posted November 15, 2012

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    Posted August 23, 2012

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    Posted October 7, 2013

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    Posted November 11, 2012

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