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PREVIEW
... of Paris stood still.
In the cafés of Toulouse, the salons of Nantes, the crumbled alleys of Marseille, and the farmhouses of Burgundy.
From bunkers near the Rhine to hamlets by the Pyrenees, they listened.
Men in boots, women with children on their laps, soldiers with rifles still hot from yesterday’s fire all waited.
Then, at precisely 11:00 AM, the voice began.
Clear.
Low.
Uncompromising.
"This is Étienne Moreau.
For the ...
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