\" 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 felt very awkward as she stared at 103 the top of his ashen hair. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. “So how about this Friday?” He asked.
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