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As I pass the junction with Morocco Street, part of the fashionably boho enclave, a gleaming Jaguar XK140 in British Racing Green throbs gently, the epitome of early James Bond, And-All-Because-The-Lady-Loves-Milk-Tray power, suavity and sophistication.
And at the wheel, beaming in ear-to-ear self-satisfaction, the spitting image of Alfed E. Neumann
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