In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. 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. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. ‘That’s better. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull.
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