She faltered but a second. “Quint!” she cried.
“Quint?”
“Peter Quint--his own man, his valet, when he was here!”
“When the master was?”
Gaping still, but meeting me, she pieced it all together. “He
never wore his hat, but he did wear--well, there were waistcoats
missed! They were both here--last year. Then the master went, and Quint
was alone.”