Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. And at the sight something leaped within her. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. Shoplatch. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. But the love of life prevailed over his fears.
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