"Ah! now we come to business," returned Jonathan, rubbing his hands, gleefully. “Oh, damn!” he said. Always as black and bitter as gall. 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. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression.
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