"And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o' yours. You know what's what. ” “I will tell him,” Lady Lescelles said. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before.
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