\" 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. “The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. They had been informally introduced during floor hockey, when Katy had sent a puck flying into Lucy’s face. She had not felt comfortable in his presence from the first, and with Leonardo’s precepts in mind, was loath to trust him.
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