Wood fancied he recognised. 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. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. It had gone with the rest. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Did you warn Frith?’ ‘Yes. He hated the taste of it. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage.
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