I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. 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. Manning relinquished his cup, and looked meaningly at Ann Veronica. Unless—would he hide from them as he had hidden from her? It was a big house, he said. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused.
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