\" 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. "You shall never behold me alive. I feel at moments as though I could bolt for it. ‘Seems to me, missie, as you’re as dangerous a female as I’m like to see. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. There was nothing to replace the all important letter from her father. " "My death will lie at your door," remarked Jackson to the carpenter.
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