"What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. 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 the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image.
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