’ A question leapt into Everett’s head and he recalled the letter to the Abbess. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. She whipped round suddenly, and discovered the woman wedged into the corner by the window, keeping out of the way. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love.
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