Emile looked at her, then down, and clearly caught the bright gleam on the floor. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. But tell her this, too. Cautiously stepping outside, he looked up towards the terrace. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. Most of the mob were armed with pikes, staves, swords, muskets, and other weapons, and offered a most desperate resistance to the soldiery, whom they drove back with a shower of paving-stones. His eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy; he let out a sigh.
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