\" 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. So it would always be between herself and Manning. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. ’ She moved to Melusine’s side as she spoke.
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