“I will not marry,” said Isabel. “Isabel. Come now, what’s—” “I will never marry. I’m telling you.” “Don’t say that,” he said. “You don’t know that.” His coffee arrived. He used pincers to put in the sugar cubes: three. He said, “You just need to get out more. Don’t you have—friends? To take you out? Of course you’re never going to meet anyone cooped up in that depressing—” “Hendrik,” Isabel said, “will never marry.”
