\" 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. "You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. " "I won't reproach you, Jack," said the other, sternly. "Tell me the truth, I implore you," cried Thames.
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