The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. 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. To be no longer with Martha was strange. “Not to-night,” she said.
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