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ictor Radcliff didn't like to go into Hanover or New Hastings or any of Atlantis' other seaboard towns. Too many people crowded too close together to suit him in places like that. He lived on a farm well to the west, more than halfway out to the Green Ridge Mountains. Whenever he found—or made—the chance, he ranged farther a'field yet. But towns were sometimes useful. He had a manuscript to de-liver to a printer in Hanover. Unless he cared to buy a printing press himself (which he didn't) or to stop writing (which he also didn't), he needed to deal with the men who could turn his scrib-ble into words someone besides himself and the compositor could understand. His wife kissed him when he left. "Come home as soon as you can," Margaret said. "I'll miss you." What might have been lay not far below the surface of her voice. They'd had two boys and a girl. None of the children saw its third bir
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