\" 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. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. . "Don't speak ill of him behind his back, father," interposed Thames. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it.
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