He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. 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. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. But this modern miasma—” Mr.
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