In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. We LIKED each other well enough. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. Then the storm broke. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time.
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