He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. “Will he die?” she asked. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. I do not even know his name. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight.
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