’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. These persons were Mr. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. I spent agonizing weeks wandering Mantua in search of you, finally arriving at the idea of asking someone who you were. I told her I was sick today and she told me to get over myself. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. 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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