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 followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features.
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