“Annabel!” she exclaimed. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. 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. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose.
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