Burn your palette and your easel. 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. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. "I dare say she has called to inquire about Jack. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character. Mr.
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