” “Quite true,” she answered briskly, “and thanks to you I have succeeded. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. Better get back now! You be careful. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. .
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