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. But they cut it all off. “If I were to marry now,” she said, “it would be with a sense of humiliation. Permit me to make him known to you—Mr. Silken open robes over full tiffany petticoats in a contrasting colour were, Lucy assured him, of the very latest Parisian design, cut by the finest French tailors. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. .
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