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Vinícius’ poems, French music, tiny messages on scented paper, even an attempt at a poorly rhymed and poorly written poem. Love stuff, would say the closest friends and the poker group. “That’s madness!”, said the most intimate ones, family and staff. The woman only wanted to know who the other was, the one who would take him to a different life, but nothing changed, even a hired private detective found out that there was no one else, or that she was so well hidden that it wasn’t worth worrying about her.

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