For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. With an open hand, he slapped her face. What about your luggage?” “I could get a few of my things, at any rate,” she said. 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. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. They WERE weird.
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