She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Both girls looked pale and listless. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. He wore a long coat, beautifully flowered, and a hat with a turned up brim. 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. They should never come into contact with politics or economics—or any of those things. He saw the colossal selfishness of his act; but he could not beg off on the plea of abnormality. She might even forgive him.
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