” Lucy said. \" 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. She winked at him as he shut the door. McClintock, without comment, accepted the hand. But David Courtlaw has been here. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. It was a grand life.
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