You deal with her. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. She never forced the issue, it was their father’s job. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. Sheppard raised her hand, and the malediction trembled upon her tongue. Rich folks, once.
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