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. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. " "I expect no commiseration," returned Mrs. “And let’s have a look at you, Vee!” said Mr. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend.
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