Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side. "So, wanton, I have found you!" "Wanton! Why, you infernal liar!" cried Spurlock, striking at the arm. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. 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.
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