She looked in the rear-view mirror. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. 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. ‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him.
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