She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. She had to make sure, for the peace of her mind, that this was really the man. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome.
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