According to Wu, the young man had not opened his eyes once during the afternoon. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. She blushed prettily, and in a moment regained command of her tongue. 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.
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