It was clear it must be to-morrow. 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. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale.
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