She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. "No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. 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. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock.
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