\" 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. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him. While they were still engaged in looking round the doctor returned with a nurse and assistant. F. Sheppard, raising herself, and looking at him as if her life depended upon the answer. ” “Yet you are very young.
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