” She demanded. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. 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. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity.
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