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Where Are the Irish Pigs?

IT is the chilly cusp of the Ides of March. If there were cressets outside the cottage they would be guttering on the sharp edge of the yellow fangs of a wind straight from Scandinavia. There are no cressets but the 60 watt bulbs in the outside lights at the front of the cottage look as chilly as Clint Eastwood’s eyes close-up in one of those spaghetti westerns.


 
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