She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. “But your sister,” he said. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again.
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