\" 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. It was neither good nor bad. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. " "Mother!" cried Jack, in a broken voice.
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