"I'll gibbet the rascal. ” Michelle spat. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. Wood. Cocking the gun. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. She had not been sufficiently prompted in relation to the ways of caravansaries; but her mind had been alert and receptive. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote.
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