The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. 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 saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—managing something. ’ ‘Well, but he was a deserter, you see. Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight.
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