She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities. He, for his part, was trying to grasp the series of unexpected reactions that had so wrecked their tete-a-tete. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. "I wonder," said Ruth. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. 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.
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