Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. \" 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. Once inside, he looked around, worried that his parents would suddenly cancel their trip and return home. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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