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 looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley. ” “As long as you remain under my roof—” he began, and paused. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. He's coming.
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