" Mrs. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. "Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. The elusive Jane tapped her on the shoulder after class. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. 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.
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