“I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. The Malays have one, too, but it's a rank imitation, tom-toms and all. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. 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.
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