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. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. "Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. The marriage cannot—shall not be delayed. “Limp,” he answered. Just a formal marriage. And she would have to go tomorrow. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. He dug about in his mind for a term to fit her, and he came upon the word new. Suddenly she had become afraid. She is English, and apparently in some distress.
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