E. \" 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. Her tone was hoarse with passion. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Marthe has told me that the house comes to my mother, Ma—ry Re—men—ham.
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