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. " "And were I in yours," rejoined the woollen-draper, "I should be doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. Maybe it’s his loss. The change in her face was not a pleasant one.
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