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The iron skies over Paris wept quietly on that cold December morning.
The chaos of November was still rang as a memory across the boulevards, but the city had finally begun to breathe again tentatively, uncertainly, like a man recovering from near drowning.
Moreau stood alone in the reading room of the Ministry, gazing out the window toward the Seine.
He had just received word from one of the senior aides Marshal Hubert Lyautey, the last of the great colonial warrior ...
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