\" 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. “Why not? It might amuse me. ‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. “Uh, I think I might, Shari. But for me it doesn’t matter. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes.
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