At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. ‘Precisely. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. He's the only native I trust in these parts. 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. The comments on the makeover lessened but were replaced by long admiring glances by boys who had never before given her the time of day. That is the dreadful truth. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey.
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