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. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years. Folks don’t like ’em. .
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