It’s—Mrs. \" 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. Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. “I suppose things have changed?” she said.
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