\" 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. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. In vain Wood protested his innocence. "You had better let me convey her to Dollis Hill," he said. To reach it would be a most difficult undertaking.
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