Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. He was heartily thankful for it. Stanley allowed his paper to drop a little, and scrutinized the hats and brows of their three fellow-travellers. It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now. He began munching his water-chestnuts—a small brown radish-shaped vegetable, with the flavour of coconut—that grow along the river brims.
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