She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. “Well?” he asked her tersely. 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. We will beg our bread and our shelter, and our passage on a boat. He shall have the estates. Perhaps I am still mad.
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