Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. ” “I am afraid,” she murmured, “that it would be difficult.
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