\"Can I get your ticket?\" He asked her as she approached the vendor. \" 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. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had.
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