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T.T. Schultz came into the kitchen where his nephew Hans was setting at the table working his way through a stack of letters, some of which were rather thick.
“Anything good Hans?”
The young man looked up, and the white-blond hairline with a widow’s peak made the chubby-cheeked family resemblance quite clear. “There is a story here from, of all people, the philosopher James Shaver. I like it, but I don’t think you can print it.”