In Larry’s old Cadillac sedan, she sat in the backseat as Larry drove and Cathy sat beside him. ‘To where has he gone off?’ ‘No use asking me,’ shrugged the captain. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. Told you how it would be. "And had you been the worst scoundrel unhung, I'd have seen to it that you had the same care, the same chance. And there," he added, placing in his hands a heavy bag of money, and a pocketbook, "is a sum little short of fifteen thousand pounds. This individual apparently met with some impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood stood.
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