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. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. We’d soon cool that temper of yours. That’s really our choice now, defy—or futility. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look.
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