I spent agonizing weeks wandering Mantua in search of you, finally arriving at the idea of asking someone who you were. Stanley, having pretended to linger to smoke, fled suddenly up-stairs to petrography, and when Veronica tapped he answered through the locked door, “Go away, Vee! I’m busy,” and made a lapidary’s wheel buzz loudly. In one of these seats, at the end of the aisle farthest removed from the chancel, the widow took her place, and addressed herself fervently to her devotions. 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. Besides, I have my doubts that he is so very sick. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is. Spurlock slept on.
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