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. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. ’ ‘Dieu du ciel! But this is catastrophe. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. “If ever you do and I can help you in any way, by advice or inquiry or recommendation—You see, I’m no believer in feminine incapacity, but I do perceive there is such a thing as feminine inexperience.
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