\" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ warned Gerald, in the voice generally reserved for his men. "Do better in future. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears.
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