The times were such that, with the opinions he entertained, he could not remain idle. But they were too late. Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. 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. Sometimes the moon was totally eclipsed; at others, it shed a wan and ghastly glimmer over the masses rolling in the firmament. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. "Ja," replied the skipper.
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