The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. 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. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. “But I am judge of that,” said Manning. It is not every sort of creature needs—these males.
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