“I think that’s the right name. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. She delighted in frustrating him. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. She felt she was now near her boy, and, nothing doubting her ability to rescue him from his perilous situation, she breathed a fervent prayer for his deliverance; and bending her steps towards the tavern in question, revolved within her mind as she walked along the best means of accomplishing her purpose. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote.
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