"Is your master at home?" inquired the jailer. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. Come close to me, and let me hold your hand, dear. 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. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried.
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