\" 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. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. The point is, I know all the tricks in finding a man. But though the breach was large enough to admit him below, he could not squeeze his bulky person through the aperture into the Red Room.
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