A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. He kissed her again. "I'll be his evil genius!" vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her torture. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. No, no! Not now!" Ruth turned abruptly and walked toward the bungalow, mounted the veranda steps, and vanished within. 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 fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More.
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