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. Fire; she was full of it. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. They had changed identities absolutely. " "Pity!" shrieked the widow. I am tired, and I want to be alone. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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