It was clear she wanted to get away from home, that she was impatient to get away from home. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. 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 wondered wildly why she had stood up. Somewhere, where we can talk without interruption.
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