\" 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 cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. That’s how it takes me. “Everything very nice, I am sure,” Miss Stanley murmured to Capes as he steered her to a place upon the little sofa before the fire. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away.
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