She was watching him intently. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. In the afternoon she had considered certain doubts very carefully, and decided on a more emphatic course of action. 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. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. “Are you with us?” said the tired woman.
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