Ennison’s acquaintance. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. Hartford, Connecticut; she had registered that address; but there was something so mystifyingly Oriental about her that the address only thickened the haze behind which she moved. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. I consented to become Mrs. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove.
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