PDF THIS THICK! 25th Anniversary Edition

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The Grand Lange 1, as the name suggests, is bigger than the classic Lange 1 by a little less than 3 mm. Truth be told, it is very hard to tell them apart at a glance and it speaks to the success of the Lange 1 that so many iterations are available. The fact that the dial proportions are enlarged in comparison with the original is not readily apparent, except when the two models are viewed next to one another. The new Grand Lange 1 has a 41 mm white gold case as opposed to the The Grand Lange 1 has a case thickness of 8.

This is due to the fact that the manually wound Caliber L Thus, in comparison with the Lange 1, the case is thinner but the power reserve is still 72 hours.

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By featuring a screw-lock crown, the watch maintains excellent airtightness and water resistance as well as durability. The contrast created by the striking GMT hand and the upper and lower two-toned dial rings helps you intuitively tell whether the time indicated by the GMT hand is day or night. As a special finish for the limited-edition model, the combination of charcoal gray and vivid yellow—a first for Grand Seiko—maximizes the visibility of the GMT display. The dial pattern imparts a sporty, digital look by featuring a GS9F pattern with our original quartz symbol as motif over the entire dial to create an exclusive design for the 25th anniversary of the launch of the 9F.

He had known it would be like this, when he sent her back to the stone circle. He did not know whether persons in Purgatory were allowed to pray or not, but tried anyway. Lord, he prayed, that she may be safe. He was sure she would have made it to the circle itself; only two months gone with child, she was still light and fleet of foot—and the most stubbornly determined woman he had ever met. But whether she had managed the dangerous transition back to the place from which she had come— sliding precariously through whatever mysterious layers lay between then and now, powerless in the grip of the rock—that he could never know, and the thought of it was enough to make him forget even the throbbing in his nose.

He resumed his interrupted inventory of bodily ills, and became inordinately distressed at the discovery that his left leg appeared to be missing. Sensation stopped at the hip, with a sort of pins-and-needles tingling at the joint. Presumably he would get it back in due time, either when he finally arrived in Heaven, or at the least, at Judgment Day.

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And after all, his brother-in-law Ian managed very well on the wooden peg he wore to replace his missing leg. Still, his vanity was troubled. Ah, that must be it; a punishment meant to cure him of the sin of vanity. He mentally set his teeth, determined to accept whatever came to him with fortitude, and such humility as he could manage. The hand struck something hard, and the fingers tangled in wet, snarled hair. He sat up abruptly, and with some effort, cracked the layer of dried blood that had sealed his eyelids shut. Memory flooded back, and he groaned aloud.

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  5. He had been mistaken. This was hell. But James Fraser was unfortunately not dead, after all.

    The body of a man lay across his own. Its dead weight crushed his left leg, explaining the absence of feeling. The head, heavy as a spent cannonball, pressed facedown into his abdomen, the damp-matted hair a dark spill on the wet linen of his shirt. He jerked upward in sudden panic; the head rolled sideways into his lap and a half-open eye stared sightlessly up behind the sheltering strands of hair. He found himself lying once more flat on his back, the sleeting sky pale gray and whirling dizzily overhead. He pressed his hands flat against the boggy ground—the water rose up cold through his fingers and soaked the back of his shirt—and wriggled sideways.

    Some warmth was trapped between them; as the limp dead weight slid slowly free, the freezing rain struck his newly exposed flesh with a shock like a blow, and he shivered violently with sudden chill.


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    As he squirmed on the ground, struggling with the crumpled, mudstained folds of his plaid, he could hear sounds above the keening of the April wind; far-off shouts and a moaning and wailing, like the calling of ghosts in the wind. And overall, the raucous calling of crows. Dozens of crows, from the sound. That was strange, he thought dimly.

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    A final heave freed the plaid from under him, and he fumbled it over his body. As he reached to cover his legs, he saw that his kilt and left leg were soaked with blood. The echoes of battle faded from his ears, and he left Culloden Field to the calling of the crows. He was wakened much later by the calling of his name. Jamie Fraser! Are ye here?

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    Wherever he had been while unconscious, it was a better place than this. He lay in a small declivity, half-filled with water. The sky had darkened nearly to black; it must be near evening, then.