Her nerves were shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. I spent agonizing weeks wandering Mantua in search of you, finally arriving at the idea of asking someone who you were. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. “We banished his experiments to here in the basement from then on.
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