It was a bright and balmy spring afternoon in Cape Town. In the public gardens beside the South African House of Assembly, brown squirrels scampered through the oak trees, and white men lazed comfortably on the benches marked "Europeans Only." Inside the paneled assembly chamber, Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd strode down the aisle, took his green leather seat on the front bench and, in a gesture that had become automatic, touched the fingers of his left hand to a small scar on his jaw, all that remained of the assassin's bullet that...
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