Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. There was a little murmur of consternation from the waiting crowd, and the florid young woman showed signs of temper, to which Mr. Capes bore a face of infinite perplexity. 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. “Maybe we could swing a scholarship to Boston College for you, you know, with your violin and all.
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