Once a thriving town before the Pestilence, most of the buildings and the piers had been destroyed or burned. Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. She placed the freezer back on top of Ray Plote's old hiding place, now his permanent resting place. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. And now I've another job for you.
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