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Devrille had made himself perfectly clear. You’re in or you’re out. During the entire train journey back to Hammersmith, to the Davudis’ kebab shop where he regularly bought dinner, and to his flat above their shop, Peter thought about the evening’s events. He’d really only just arrived in London; he wasn’t ready to return to Melbourne. So, he would now use Snoddy to get his information. Was it all that different from getting information from his sources back home—his puppies? He’d always been careful not to delve too far into how they secured their facts. All he’d be doing would be substituting a professional for an amateur, a Snodgrass for a puppy. Was it really a step too far? 
Ethics was just a word, an outdated concept dreamed up by a Greek philosopher thousands of years ago. It’s a medical term isn’t it? It has something to do with turning off people’s machines. Or is it the name of an English county? Ethics in journalism had always been as malleable as wet clay and Peter Clancy had certainly slopped them around during his career. Less saint, more sinner. Ethical dilemma. Those words were still bouncing around his mind, even after he had gone to bed. It was one-thirty before those words finally went away; when he finally came to a decision.
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