Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. ’ So pat, thought Gerald. ’ ‘What?’ Appalled, Gerald could only gaze at her. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. 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. Naturally it all came out then. His idea was to get behind this sustained listlessness.
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