“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. 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. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive.
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