I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. 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. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. Thieves and pickpockets are his constant companions. She looked down at him and saw that the sunlight was gleaming from his cheeks, and that all over his cheeks was a fine golden down of delicate hairs. Anna felt that her words had become charged with a fuller and more subtle meaning than any which she had intended to impart. ‘She wants you. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random.
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