The Wastrel did not relish this. No one ate with as much passionate gusto as a teenager could. She obeyed, extending her arm. 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. “That is very nice of you,” she said. In their opinion a hundred pounds would not repair the damage done to the prison. And, if ever I'm brought to the gallows, I shall lay my death at her door.
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