E. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. He would always be her friend, too. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her.
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