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- Crowley considered this. "Nah," he said, at last. "For my money, it was just average incompetence. Hey-"
- He whistled under his breath.
- The graveled forecourt in front of the manor was crowded with cars, and they weren't nun cars. The Bentley was if anything outclassed. A lot of the cars had GT or Turbo in their names and phone aerials on their roofs. They were nearly all less than a year old.
- Crowley's hands itched. Aziraphale healed bicycles and broken bones; he longed to steal a few radios, let down some tires, that sort of thing. He resisted it.
- ***
- Good Omens - Wednesday
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