He went over her features one by one in his mind. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. ’ She gestured at his hand, on which Roding’s makeshift bandage had been replaced by a more efficient one. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. They slow danced to a Bon Jovi ballad.
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