She's the boss. 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. He was speechless. It had ceased now, but as he closed in on the area, a faint muttering came to his ears. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. White Sears special-order orthopedic shoes, polyester pants, and cotton print blouses were her usual weekend attire.
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