Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. Wood at Dollis Hill, was assaulted and half-killed by a party of ruffians, headed, he swore, by Mr. Howsomdever, if you should reach t'other side, take an old feller's advice, and don't be foolhardy enough to venter back again. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. I waited for her at the back.
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