But here the resemblance stopped. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. Her heart thudded.
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