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. “It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously. "And now, mark me. " "What for? What do you want of them?" "Why, they are … yours. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it.
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