He moved her dress from her shoulders and off her torso. Shari entered the room in a damp towel, fresh from the shower. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. “No, John, you won’t understand. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. 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. They sold him the whisky. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles.
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