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She stands on the kerb, dressed in her finest clothes, wearing her finest jewellery, exactly as she has done every night for the past 50 years. The crowds pass her by. Tourists stare, locals look straight through her, they have seen her countless times before. She sees none of them.
The clock strikes one hour, then the next. When she hears it strike midnight, she picks up the shabby suitcase from the pavement beside her, turns and goes back through the old door next to the bookshop. He didn’t come. Tomorrow night, yes, tomorrow he will come.
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