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Ennison. She says that everyone in the house makes too much noise, my Dad snores, and that when the house is empty, the traffic noise is nearly deafening. It had not tasted good since 1350. 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. "Close the door!" commanded Trenchard, impatiently.
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