To work then he went, and with wonderful industry filed off two of the iron bars. 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 would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. The whole affair interested him deeply. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom.
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