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“I met an old man once,” Harry said in Norwegian. She glanced at him in surprise. “He was the captain of a boat on the Amazon River. Three words from him in Portuguese and I knew he was Swedish. He had lived there for thirty years. And I can’t speak a word of Portuguese.”
They drove to St. Etienne Hospital, where they had to register their names in the visitors’ book—a thick, weighty tome that lay open in front of an even weightier nun presiding behind the glass window with crossed arms, but she just directed them in, shaking her head.
