Those Who Hunt the Night

Those Who Hunt the Night

by Barbara Hambly

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From a New York Times–bestselling author: A former spy is recruited to unmask a vampire hunter in this Locus Award Winner.
James Asher, a retired member of the Queen’s secret service in Edwardian England, has settled into quietude as an Oxford professor of philology with his physician wife, Lydia. But his peace is shattered when he’s confronted by a pale aristocratic Spaniard named Don Simon Ysidro, who makes an outlandish claim that someone is killing his fellow vampires of London, and he needs James’s help to ferret the culprit out. The request also comes with a threatening ultimatum: Should James fail, both he and his wife will die.
With James’s talent for espionage and Lydia’s scientific acumen and keen analytical mind, the couple begins an investigation that takes them from the crypts of London to the underworld circles of the unliving to the grisly depths of a charnel house in Paris. Now James and Lydia must believe in the unbelievable—if they’re to survive another night in the shadow of Don Simon Ysidro.
This first book in the James Asher series is “one of the more memorable vampire novels of recent years—smoothly written, suspenseful, awash in moral ambiguity, and rich in vampire lore . . . a must-read for vampire fans” (Kirkus Reviews). Barbara Hambly gives “Anne Rice a run for her money” (Publishers Weekly) and “Don Simon is unforgettable” (Charlaine Harris).

This ebook features an illustrated biography of Hambly, including rare photos and never-before-seen documents from her personal collection.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781453216446
Publisher: Open Road Media
Publication date: 03/29/2011
Series: The James Asher Vampire Novels , #1
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 300
Sales rank: 125,173
File size: 5 MB

About the Author

Barbara Hambly (b. 1951) is a New York Times bestselling author of fantasy and science fiction, as well as historical novels set in the nineteenth century. After receiving a master’s degree in medieval history, she published The Time of the Dark, the first novel in the Darwath saga, in 1982, establishing herself as an author of serious speculative fiction. Since then she has created several series, including the Windrose Chronicles, Sun Wolf and Starhawk series, and Sun-Cross series, in addition to writing for the Star Wars and Star Trek universes. Besides fantasy, Hambly has won acclaim for the James Asher vampire series, which won the Locus Award for best horror novel in 1989, and the Benjamin January mystery series, featuring a brilliant African-American surgeon in antebellum New Orleans. She lives in Los Angeles.

Read an Excerpt

Those Who Hunt the Night

By Barbara Hambly


Copyright © 1988 Barbara Hambly
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-1644-6



But even before the shadows of the stairwell swallowed the last echoes of his wife's name, James Asher knew something was desperately wrong.

The house was silent, but it was not empty.

He stopped dead in the darkened front hall, listening. No sound came down the shadowy curve of the stairs from above. No plump Ellen hurried through the baize-covered door at the back of the hall to take her master's Oxford uniform of dark academic robe and mortarboard, and, by the seeping chill of the autumn night that permeated the place, he could tell that no fires burned anywhere. He was usually not conscious of the muted clatter of Mrs. Grimes in the kitchen, but its absence was as loud to his ears as the clanging of a bell.

Six years ago, Asher's response would have been absolutely unhesitating—two steps back and out the door, with a silent, deadly readiness that few of the other dons at New College would have associated with their unassuming colleague. But Asher had for years been a secret player in what was euphemistically termed the Great Game, innocuously collecting philological notes in British-occupied Pretoria or among the Boers on the veldt, in the Kaiser's court in Berlin or the snowbound streets of St. Petersburg. And though he'd turned his back on that Game, he knew from experience that it would never completely turn its back on him.

Still, for a moment, he hesitated. For beyond a doubt, Lydia was somewhere in that house.

Then with barely a whisper of his billowing robe, Asher glided back over the threshold and into the raw fog that shrouded even the front step. There was danger in the house, though he did not consciously feel fear—only an ice-burn of anger that, whatever was going on, Lydia and the servants had been dragged into it.

If they've hurt her ...

He didn't even know who they were, but a seventeen-year term of secret servitude to Queen—now King—and Country had left him with an appalling plethora of possibilities.

Noiseless as the Isis mists that cloaked the town, he faded back across the cobbles of Holywell Street to the shadowy brown bulk of the College wall and waited, listening. They—whoever "they" were in the house—would have heard him. They would be waiting, too.

Lydia had once asked him—for she'd guessed, back in the days when she'd been a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl playing croquet with her uncle's junior scholastic colleague on her father's vast lawns—how he kept from being dropped upon in foreign parts: "I mean, when the balloon goes up and they find the Secret Plans are gone or whatever, there you are."

He'd laughed and said, "Well, for one thing, no plans are ever gone—merely accurately copied. And as for the rest, my best defense is always simply being the sort of person who wouldn't do that sort of thing."

"You do that here." Those enormous, pansy-brown eyes had studied him from behind her steel-rimmed spectacles. Her thin, almost aggressive bookishness was at that time just beginning to melt into fragile sensuality. With the young men who were even then beginning to take an interest in her, she didn't wear the spectacles—she was an expert at blind croquet and guessing what was on menus. But with him, it seemed, it was different. In her sensible cotton shirtwaist and blue-and-red school tie, the changeable wind tangling her long red hair, she'd looked like a leggy marsh-fey unsuccessfully trying to pass itself off as an English schoolgirl. "Is it difficult to go from being one to being the other?"

He'd thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. "It's a bit like wearing your Sunday best," he'd said, knowing even then that she'd understand what he meant. And she'd laughed, the sound bright with delight as the April sunlight. He'd kept that laugh—as he'd kept the damp lift of morning fog from the Cherwell meadows or the other-world sweetness of May morning voices drifting down from Magdalen Tower like the far-off singing of angels—in the corner of his heart where he stored precious things as if they were a boy's shoe-box hoard, to be taken out and looked at in China or the veldt when things were bad. It had been some years before he'd realized that her laugh and the still sunlight shining like carnelian on her hair were precious to him, not as symbols of the peaceful life of study and teaching, where one played croquet with one's Dean's innocent niece, but because he was desperately in love with this girl. The knowledge had nearly broken his heart.

Now the years of scholarship, of rest, and of happiness fell off him like a shed University gown, and he moved down the narrow street, circling the row of its flat-fronted brick houses toward the labyrinthine tangle of the back lanes.

If anything had happened to her ...

From the lane behind the houses he could see the gas burning in the window of his study, though between the mists and the curtain lace he could distinguish nothing within. A carriage passed along Holywell Street behind him, the strike of hooves and jingle of harness brasses loud in that narrow corridor of cobbles and brick. From the weeping grayness of the garden, Asher could see the whole broad kitchen, lit like a stage set. Only the jet over the stove was burning—even after dusk was well settled, the wide windows let in a good deal of light. That put it no later than seven ...

Put what? In spite of his chill and businesslike concentration, Asher grinned a little at the mental image of himself storming his own home, like Roberts relieving Mafeking, to find a note saying, "Father ill, gone to visit him, have given servants night off—Lydia."

Only, of course, his wife—and it still startled him to think that after everything, he had in fact succeeded in winning Lydia as his wife—had as great an abhorrence as he did of confusion. She would never have let Mrs. Grimes and the two maids, not to speak of Mick in the stables, leave for the night without making some provision for his supper. Nor would she have done that or anything else without dispatching a note to his study at the College, informing him of changed plans.

But Asher needed none of this train of logic, which flickered through his mind in fragments of a second, to know all was not well. The years had taught him the smell of peril, and the house stank of it.

Keeping to the tangle of vine that overgrew the garden wall, conscious of those darkened windows overlooking him from above, he edged toward the kitchen door.

Most of the young men whom Asher tutored in philology, etymology, and comparative folklore at New College—which had not, in fact, been new since the latter half of the fourteenth century—regarded their mentor with the affectionate respect they would have accorded a slightly eccentric uncle. Asher played to this image sheerly from force of habit—it had stood him in good stead abroad. He was a reasonably unobtrusive man, taller than he seemed at first glance and, as Lydia generally expressed it, brown: brown hair, brown eyes, brown mustache, brown clothes, and brown mien. Without his University gown, he looked, in fact, like a clerk, except for the sharpness of his eyes and the silence with which he moved. It would have been coincidence, the undergraduates would have said, that he found the deepest shadow in the dark and dew-soaked garden in which to stow his gown and mortarboard cap, the antique uniform of Oxford scholarship which covered his anonymous tweeds. Certainly they would not have said that he was the sort of man who could jimmy open a window with a knife, nor that he was the sort of man who would carry such a weapon concealed in his boot.

The kitchen was utterly deserted, chilly, and smelling of the old-fashioned stone floor and of ashes long grown cold. No steam floated above the hot-water reservoir of the stove—a new American thing of black rococo iron which had cost nearly twenty-five dollars from a catalogue. The bland brightness of the gaslight, winking on the stove's nickel-plated knobs, and the silver of toast racks, made the stillness in the kitchen seem all the more ominous, like a smiling maniac with an ax behind his back.

Few of the dons at Oxford were familiar with the kitchen quarters of their own homes—many of them had never penetrated past the swinging doors that separated the servants' portions of the house from those in which the owners lived. Asher had made it his business to know not only the precise layout of the place—he could have passed through it blindfolded without touching a single piece of furniture, as he could indeed have passed through any room in the house or in his College—but to know exactly where everything was kept. Knowing such things was hardly a conscious effort anymore, merely one of the things he had picked up over the years and had never quite dared to put down. He found the drawer in which Mrs. Grimes kept her carving knives—the hideout he kept in his boot was a small one, for emergencies—then moved on to the archway just past the stove which separated kitchen from pantry, all the while aware that someone, somewhere in the house, listened for his slightest footfall.

Mrs. Grimes, Ellen, and the girl Sylvie were all there. They sat around the table, a slumped tableau like something from the Chamber of Horrors at Mme. Tussaud's, somehow shocking in the even, vaguely flickering light from the steel fishtail burner by the stove. All they needed was a poison bottle on the table between them, Asher thought with wry grimness, and a placard:


Only there was no bottle, no used teacups, no evidence in fact of anything eaten or drunk. The only thing on the table at all was a bowl of half-shelled peas.

Studying the cook's thin form, the parlor maid's plump one, and the huddled shape of the tweeny, Asher felt again that chill sensation of being listened for and known. All three women were alive, but he didn't like the way they slept, like broken dolls, heedless of muscle cramp or balance.

He had been right, then.

The only other light on in the house was in his study, and that was where he kept his revolver, an American Navy Colt stowed in the drawer of his desk; if one were a lecturer in philology, of course, one couldn't keep a revolver in one's greatcoat pocket. The other dons would certainly talk.

He made his way up the back stairs from the kitchen. From its unobtrusive door at the far end of the hall he could see no one waiting for him at the top of the front stairs, but that meant nothing. The door of the upstairs parlor gaped like a dark mouth. From the study, a bar of dimmed gold light lay across the carpet like a dropped scarf.

Conscious of the weight of his body on the floor, he moved a few steps forward, close to the wall. By angling his head, he could see a wedge of the room beyond. The divan had been deliberately dragged around to a position in which it would be visible from the hall. Lydia lay on the worn green cushions, her hair unraveled in a great pottery-red coil to the floor. On her breast her long, capable hand was curled protectively around her spectacles, as if she'd taken them off to rest her eyes for a moment; without them, her face looked thin and unprotected in sleep. Only the faint movement of her small breasts beneath the smoky lace of a trailing tea gown showed him she lived at all.

The room was set up as a trap, he thought with the business portion of his mind. Someone waited inside for him to go rushing in at first sight of her, as indeed his every instinct cried out to him to do ...

"Come in, Dr. Asher," a quiet voice said from within that glowing amber chamber of books. "I am alone—there is in fact no one else in the house. The young man who looks after your stables is asleep, as you have found your women servants to be. I am seated at your desk, which is in its usual place, and I have no intention of doing you harm tonight."

Spanish, the field agent in him noted—flawless and unaccented, but Spanish all the same—even as the philologist pricked his ears at some odd, almost backcountry inflection to the English, a trace of isolative a here and there, a barely aspirated e just flicking at the ends of some words ...

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The young man sitting at Asher's desk looked up from the dismantled pieces of the revolver and inclined his head in greeting.

"Good evening," he said politely. "For reasons which shall shortly become obvious, let us pass the formality of explanations and proceed to introductions."

It was only barely audible—the rounding of the ou in obvious and the stress shift in explanations—but it sent alarm bells of sheer scholarly curiosity clanging in some half-closed lumber room of his mind. Can't you stop thinking like a philologist even at a time like this ...?

The young man went on, "My name is Don Simon Xavier Christian Morado de la Cadena-Ysidro, and I am what you call a vampire."

Asher said nothing. An unformed thought aborted itself, leaving white stillness behind.

"Do you believe me?"

Asher realized he was holding his intaken breath, and let it out. His glance sheered to Lydia's throat; his folkloric studies of vampirism had included the cases of so-called "real" vampires, lunatics who had sought to prolong their own twisted lives by drinking or bathing in the blood of young girls. Through the tea gown's open collar he could see the white skin of her throat. No blood stained the fragile ecru of the lace around it. Then his eyes went back to Ysidro, in whose soft tones he had heard the absolute conviction of a madman. Yet, looking at that slender form behind his desk, he was conscious of a queer creeping sensation of the skin on the back of his neck, an uneasy sense of having thought he was descending a stair and, instead, stepping from the edge of a cliff ...

The name was Spanish—the young man's bleached fairness might well hail from the northern provinces where the Moors had never gone calling. Around the thin, high-nosed hidalgo face, his colorless hair hung like spider silk, fine as cobweb and longer than men wore it these days. The eyes were scarcely darker, a pale, yellowish amber, flecked here and there with pleats of faded brown or gray—eyes which should have seemed catlike, but didn't. There was an odd luminosity to them, an unplaceable glittering quality, even in the gaslight, that troubled Asher. Their very paleness, contrasting with the moleskin-soft black velvet of the man's coat collar, pointed up the absolute pallor of the delicate features, far more like a corpse's than a living man's, save for their mobile softness.

From his own experiences in Germany and Russia, Asher knew how easy such a pallor was to fake, particularly by gaslight. And it might simply be madness or drugs that glittered at him from those grave yellow eyes. Yet there was an eerie quality to Don Simon Ysidro, an immobility so total it was as if he had been there behind the desk for hundreds of years, waiting ...

As Asher knelt beside Lydia to feel her pulse, he kept his eyes on the Spaniard, sensing the danger in the man. And even as his mind at last identified the underlying inflections of speech, he realized, with an odd, sinking chill, whence that dreadful sense of stillness stemmed.

The tonal shift in a few of his word endings was characteristic of those areas which had been linguistically isolated since the end of the sixteenth century.

And except when he spoke, Don Simon Ysidro did not appear to be breathing.

The carving knife still in his left hand, Asher got to his feet and said, "Come here."

Ysidro did not move. His slender hands remained exactly as they had been, dead white against the blued steel of the dissected gun, but no more inert than the spider who awaits the slightest vibration of the blundering fly.

"You understand, it is not always easy to conceal what we are, particularly if we have not fed," he explained in his low, light voice. Heavy lids gave his eyes an almost sleepy expression, not quite concealing cynicism and mockery, not quite concealing that odd gleam. "Up until ninety years ago, it was a simple matter, for no one looks quite normal by candlelight. Now that they are lighting houses by electricity, I know not what we shall do."

Ysidro must have moved. The terrifying thing was that Asher did not see the man do it, was not—for a span of what must have been several seconds—conscious of anything, as if he had literally slipped into a trance on his feet. One second he was standing, knife in hand, between Lydia's sleeping form and the desk where the slim intruder sat; the next, it seemed, he came to himself with a start to find the iciness of Ysidro's fingers still chilling his hand, and the knife gone.


Excerpted from Those Who Hunt the Night by Barbara Hambly. Copyright © 1988 Barbara Hambly. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Those Who Hunt the Night 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 55 reviews.
ASaxon More than 1 year ago
This is a vampire novel for those who don't have a lot of patience for the toothless, soft vampires that inhabit so many of the current horde of fantasy and romance novels. In Hambly's world vampires are dangerous, frequently cruel, cautious, and knowing about them usually means there will be a very short life ahead of you. The atmosphere is excellent, the mystery engaging and James and Lydia are very sharp, even modern, without being impossible in their own time. I read and reread this book back when it was first printed, and the poor paperback has fallen apart. I'm very glad to see this in print.
Love-to-read-in-Monett-MO More than 1 year ago
This is not your run of the mill vampire tale! When a centuries old London vampire enlists the aide of a mortal university professor there is no way you'll anticipate the twists and turns of this story. The characters are interesting and deep, giving the reader an insight into their lives and minds. You won't be able to put this one down.
suzatm07 More than 1 year ago
I first read this when it was published 20 some years ago and I still could not put it down now with re-reading. I am so happy Barbara Hambly's books have been put in ebook form. Her books are too good to let fade away.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This reads as a mystery, keeping you turning the pages long after it's time you went to sleep. The author manages to put you inside the world of vampires and you come out changed, just like the characters in the book. I Loved This Book and the sequel, Traveling With The Dead. Keep them comming!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I bought this book on the recommendation of a store clerk. Wow it is wonderful, I bought the companion book Traveling with The Dead - If you like Vampire books you will LOVE these. I have since reread them twice.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I am a huge fan of this book and Travelling with the Dead. They are wonderful, just fabulous. I've been waiting YEARS for another sequel, but I fear Hambly has moved on with her commercially successful, politically correct, Benjamin January series.
kamas716 More than 1 year ago
A vampire novel that doesn't involve a bunch of silly love interests. A murder mystery set in 1907 England, an ancient vampire hires a human to find out who's killing the vampires of London. Protagonists that make mistakes and almost lose their lives for it. You get the feeling that they are actually in danger, it not being just a set up. I read this book years ago, back in high school, when it first came out. Having read it again, I liked it just as much this time. I have this in both paperback and eBook. I'm looking forward to the next in the series. The eBook was formatted well, with only a couple of spelling errors
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The author is great at creating a mood of suspense, tension, fear, love. She's my new favorite author. The language is clean. There's no explicit sex. If this book was made into a movie, I don't think I would want to watch it alone, if it's done as well as this book. I enjoyed this book a lot, and followed it with #2 in the vampire series, which I liked even better.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It's a very interesting read with many twists and turns
Anonymous 5 months ago
ecolenca on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
REALLLY loved this book. The style is lyrical, the take on vampires is original, and everyone comes off as well rounded and authentic, even the villain, although at the end he is a bit over the top. I love Hambly's writing in this series, though I daresay some would find it too flowery. Her image evokes very visceral sensations, and the attention to detail, such as the vampire's antique Spanish, really stuck in mind. I've read this book three times over the past several years and it never loses its appeal.
Karlstar on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is one of my favorite vampire books. It brings to mind Dracula, but it has its own tone and style, and is one of the better books that features a vampire we can sympathize with. Excellent reading, though Anne Rice fans may find it tame.
melannen on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Still the absolute best vampire novel I have ever read.And only part of it is the fact that I have a weakness for action heroes, like Dr. Asher, who in civilian life are - *ahem* - cunning linguists. Or the fact that I'm madly in love with Don Simon.This book does a great job of balancing an Edwardian feel with modern storytelling methods - it's a bit more formal in diction and style and loose in pace than your average modern fantasy book, but not enough so to make it difficult for the modern reader, though it is a bit of a slow start.The main thing that keeps me re-reading this, though, is her vampires. She has created the vampires who *must* exist - if vampires actually existed - who are believable, who are just tragic enough and just human enough and just *utterly terrifying* enough to take the concept of a vampire right to the edge of where it can go without ever chickening out on where that's leading her - or descending to sensationalism.And the human characters' reactions to the vampires are exactly human enough, as well; the way a human can become accustomed to *any* sort of horror, simply by being around it long enough - and the characters' own self-disgust as they find themselves coming to respect the vampire characters, despite what they are - is all just perfectly drawn without ever going too far.The murder mystery is fun, too. But this book's really about the characters and what necessity makes of men.
librisissimo on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Substance: A British "secret agent" of the Victorian era is enlisted by a vampire, an erstwhile Spanish nobleman attendant on King Phillip in 1555, to discover who or what has been killing the other vampires of London. Style: A fair mystery, with well-placed clues, leading to a satisfactory solution. Sufficient action balanced with the cerebration, matrimonial romance, and some humor.
bcquinnsmom on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Set in London just past the turn of the 20th century, James Asher, who works (or rather worked) as an agent for Britain's intelligence service, comes home one day to his home in London to find his wife and two of their servants out cold. While he's taking in the scene, he is accosted by a man claiming to be a vampire. Threatened with the death of his wife by this person, James has no choice but to help him. The vampire wants him to hunt down someone who has been opening the coffins of other vampires throughout the city and burning them in the sunlight. Since the vampire cannot walk by day, he needs James to find the guilty party. James reluctantly agrees, to save his wife Lydia. This book was pretty good. Well written (although sometimes rather wordy), it does capture the times in which it is placed. The author never allows anything to distract from the mystery and keeps it on track at all times. A good addition to anyone's vampire library.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Well worth a read. Fun story.
plappen More than 1 year ago
A new killer is afoot on the streets of Sherlock Holmes-era London. The difference is that this killer is targeting London's vampires, who have existed in the city for several hundred years. Someone, or something, is opening their coffins during the day, thereby exposing them to sunlight, and certain death. Simon Ysidro, London's oldest vampire, enlists the help of James Asher, an instructor at Oxford University, and former British spy, to investigate. Asher is given little choice in the matter. Any non-cooperation or attempts at double-crossing on Asher's part will lead to his young wife, Lydia, a medical doctor, becoming the newest member of London's vampire population. Taking great pains to keep Lydia as safe as possible, Asher and Ysidro visit the now-empty coffins, looking for clues. Ysidro is less than cooperative, not wanting to reveal too much as possible about life as a vampire. Lydia undertakes her own investigation, looking for anomalies in house ownership records, or people who have lived much longer than normal, while spending her nights reading medical journals. Asher learns that turning someone into a vampire is not as easy as just drinking their blood. More than that is involved, and it does not work all the time. Asher and Ysidro travel to Paris, where they meet Brother Anthony, a very old and frail-looking vampire who lives underground in the Catacombs. Asher also narrowly escapes getting his blood drained by several French vampires. Returning to London, Asher learns that Lydia, increasingly concerned about his lack of communication, has taken matters into her own hands. Does Asher find her in time? Is the culprit found and stopped? Does this have anything to do with a sudden rash of "unexplained" deaths in London, whose victims have had their blood drained? This is a really good novel, but not a very fast moving novel. It will take some effort on the part of the reader, but that effort will be rewarded, because Hambly shows that she knows how to tell a story. It is worth checking out.
Chrissy_W More than 1 year ago
Did I enjoy this book: This is a Gothic vampire mystery novel and I liked it. It’s got “Spooky Halloween Book” written all over it, and guess what – there aren’t any sparkly vampires. Not that there’s anything wrong with sparkly vampires, but I prefer mine with a bit of a classic vampire vibe. You know, sneaking out of dark corners and talking about sucking your blood? Yeah, that’s what Barbara Hambly created in this novel. A friend who recommended Those Who Hunt the Night said I’d adore Ysidro’s character. She was right of course. He is the perfect amount of creepy and intelligent for a vampire. He’s eloquent, which makes reading his dialogue fun. It’s easy to fall into a rhythm with the banter he has with our main character James Asher. Hambly also lets science take part in this novel. We get to see that perhaps there is science behind being a vampire. No, there is no outbreak of vampire disease that causes Buffy to show up, but the science makes this novel interesting because we get a look at more than just the normal vampire lore. Those Who Hunt the Night is a quick read, and now that I found out there‘s a sequel I’ll be rereading it to get myself back into the gothic world of James Asher.   Would I recommend it: I would! As reviewed by Gina at Every Free Chance Books. 
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Great read. Worth your time & money.
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Runs in
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