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Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. ” Lucy felt herself grow feverish inside. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. ” In the car, John was wound up.
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