“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. 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 kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Wood, who had merely absented himself to see that a public breakfast, which he had ordered at the Six Bells for all who chose to partake of it, was in readiness. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said.
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