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The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits.
Adorned in master's loving art, She lies.
The blade and chalice guarding o'er Her gates.
She rests at last beneath the starry skies.
With a sudden upwelling of revernce, Robert Langdon fell to his knees.
For a moment, he thought he heard a woman's voice... the windsom of the ages... whispering up from the chasms of the earth.
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