She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. They are not your flowers. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. And at last Ann Veronica and Miss Miniver came down the dark staircase and out into the foggy spaces of the London squares, and crossed Russell Square, Woburn Square, Gordon Square, making an oblique route to Ann Veronica’s lodging. 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. Because I’m younger than you.
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