But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. She had other boyfriends and hung out at Foster’s only bar most of the time. He had just arrived from Manchester, whence he had been summoned by that treacherous thief-taker. She had heard the trader utter it many times. ‘You must think me a fool, mademoiselle. “What he had was altogether insufficient.
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