He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight. “You are magnificent,” she said, “but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. 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. There was a couple who disappeared. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke.
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