Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. 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. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. How much he would be able to do for her. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. My uterus and my ovaries are gone. Every rule is against me—Why did I let you begin this? I might have told—” “I don’t see that you could help—” “I might have helped—” “You couldn’t. I want to know more about her. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was.
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