“No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. “Maybe I should have stayed home. I do not wish that the soldiers there will see it shine. ’ ‘Will you go back there?’ asked Gerald. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers.
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