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John Blanchard stood at Grand Central Station studying the crowds. People leaving, people arriving, people waiting, like himself, to meet someone. He was looking for the girl he loved but whose face he did not know, the girl wearing the rose. He had become interested in her a year ago when they began chatting on web. He liked the things she wrote and the way she wrote them. They got to know each other through their regular chats. A romance was starting. John asked her to scan in a photograph of herself, but she always refused. She felt that if
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