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March 4, 2006
Now, with the cold light of the coming Connecticut dawn leaking in through the two buffalo-sized holes in her bedroom, Marsha Quinn felt a strange sort of disquiet, an unease that she had experienced only once before, when she had been nine years old and a particularly malevolent uncle had insisted on shooting her friends. Marsha had been a quiet and sensitive girl who preferred the company of stoats. Now she felt a dire foreboding, as though someone were about to burst through the French windows and cauterize her. "Oh, but I am simply being silly," she thought to herself.