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She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. ‘Not from the nuns, no. ” “Lucy Albert, sir. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. I hate children. She’s got a great imagination.
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