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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. Though scarcely two hours past midnight, it was perfectly light. A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. ‘What do you think?’ ‘What do I think?’ repeated Captain Roding. Which, if we are not all of us very careful indeed, will be stolen from Miss Charvill. She doubted if Manning would even listen to that. Manning, with a sweep of the arm.
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