Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt. 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. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars.
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