\" 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. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. "What for?" demanded Wood. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath. .
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