E. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. I do not know if I will have to escape quickly once more. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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