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A John LeCarre’ Novel
The brick walls of the houses along the street
Are always centuries-damp in the dim streetlights
Flickering yellow past the garbage cans
And is that sound - water dripping? Footsteps?
She was to meet him in the shadows of
A shuttered plywood newspaper kiosk
That tiny red spark over there – it moves
But she doesn’t smoke. And she’s very cautious
A scream. A shot. A cat. A light. A voice,
A very soft voice:
“Mustn’t be found here, old boy. Need a lift?”
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