Mrs. 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. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. Everything in the world had changed for her. That was the glorious if bewildering truth.
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