\" 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. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. The comments on the makeover lessened but were replaced by long admiring glances by boys who had never before given her the time of day. "That's usual.
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