Probably a sick man's whim. ” “Don’t say that,” Sydney begged. \" 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. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them.
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