But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. 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. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. “All your dreadful scientific things?” he said, with a smile that Miss Klegg thought extraordinarily kindly. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Each human contact leaves some indelible mark.
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