\" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. She changed into a halter top and a pair of tight jeans herself, and let Lucy brush her long, glossy hair as they talked about mascara, schoolwork, and boys. James's built for offices of the meanest description. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. Let me have a word with him, and you may take all the money.
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