The Quai Gustave-Ador on the southern shore of Lake Geneva was cloaked in freezing mist as the clock struck two in the afternoon. The monumental plume of the Jet d'Eau shot four hundred feet into the gray sky, spraying a cold, fine vapor across the long stone breakwater that extended into the lake. The pier was deserted, closed to tourists due to the winter gale. Ava walked alone down the…
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