Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. ” She seemed unmoved, but she did not look at him. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. My only love is for my poor lost son. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. ” Anna looked up with a doubtful smile of non-recognition.
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