She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. At the first glance, he imagined he must have stumbled upon a museum of rarities, there were so many glass-cases, so many open cabinets, ranged against the walls; but the next convinced him that if Jonathan was a virtuoso, his tastes did not run in the ordinary channels. ‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will. 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. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. .
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