’ ‘Yes, but when I think about this, I do not think I can do so,’ she said candidly. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted. 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. ’ ‘Quite right, Gerald,’ approved Lucilla.
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