\" 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. She struggled fiercely not to give way. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me.
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