Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. Her education was remarkable in that it was overdeveloped here and underdeveloped there: the woman of thirty and the child of ten were always getting in each other's way. The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned. 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 was obvious that he had waited for her. But she made no answer. He suddenly became eloquent and plausible. “I’ve gotta go.
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