"My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. 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. " "I will go, if you will consent to meet me at midnight near the old house in Wych Street," replied Jack.
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