It generalized everything she put to it. 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. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious.
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