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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. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. Twenty-one, twenty-two. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. " "You will call for it before six months are passed," rejoined Jack, sternly.
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