‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. Perhaps I may borrow yours one day?’ ‘Lucilla, you wretch,’ burst from the captain. " And, once more enveloping himself in darkness, he pursued his course. 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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