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... wson strode into the lobby, her face an icy mask. The sharp, crisp CLACK of her high heels on the marble floor echoed like the beating of a war drum.
The mirror-like floor reflected her slightly distorted image. The air was a mixture of disinfectant and a faint, fragrant aroma.
"I’m looking for Wren Sutton." Ms. Dawson’s voice was as cold as ice, a torrent of rage churning beneath her forced composure.
The receptionist was a young nurse, not the same one from yesterday, a ...
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