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The little office building that Diane and I owned together was an architecturally pedestrian—certainly not a painted lady—early-1900s Victorian house on the west end of Walnut, a couple of blocks
from the Pearl Street Mall. The odds of finding street parking in downtown Boulder during the closeout-sale-frenzied week between Christmas and New Year's were about the same odds of being eaten by a great white
shark, so Diane was planning to stash her Saab behind our building and start her quest for bargains near Ninth and Pearl on the west end of downtown. Since I had a patient to see, I told her I'd park at our offices,
too, and suggested we rendezvous outside Peppercorn at three.
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