He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. “I think that I know very well what I am saying,” she answered. It was well for him that he had taken his place by Sheppard, as regard for the latter alone prevented the deadliest missiles being hurled at him. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer without.
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