\" 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. And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large. A broken laugh followed the action. I want to get away—to go to London.
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