\" 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. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. All our fraternity are afraid of him; but I laugh at his threats. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. ” “It cannot be!” “It is in the grimoires.
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