The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. 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.
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