Carve. Let me see now——
Janet. I mean the one I sent to the office of the Matrimonial News.
Carve. (Mechanically feeling in his pockets, pulling out papers and putting them back.) Where did I put it? Oh, perhaps it's in the pocket of another coat. (Goes to a coat of Shawn's hanging on inner knob of double doors, and empties all the pockets, bringing the contents, including a newspaper, to the table.)
Janet. (Picking up an envelope.) Yes, that's it—I can feel the photograph. You seem to keep things in the pockets of all your coats.
Carve. If you knew what I've been through this last day or two——
Janet. (Soothingly.) Yes, yes.
Carve. I haven't had a quiet moment. Now——(Reading letter.) "Dear Sir, in reply to your advertisement, I write to you with particulars of my case. I am a widow, aged thirty-two years——"
Janet. And anybody that likes can see my birth certificate. That's what I call talking.
Carve. My dear lady! (Continuing to read.) "Thirty-two years. My father was a jobbing builder, well known in Putney and Wandsworth. My husband was a rent collector and estate agent. He died four years ago of appendicitis (hesitating) caught——"
Janet. Caused.