Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. It just made me mad to the boiling point. We dressed it in a little music. “No!” she exclaimed. "I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt.
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