She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “You are quite right, I think. 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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