\" 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. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature.
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