F. Miss Miniver learned of her flight and got her address from the Widgetts. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. You see, I’m separated from my wife. 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. So she married him. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me.
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