“His new play is of course not a comedy,” Joan cuts across her. “But you knew that, I expect.” Agnes is silent. The animal inside her flexes itself restlessly, starts to scrape at her innards with its needling claws. “It’s a tragedy,” Joan continues, baring her teeth in a smile. “And I am certain he will have told you the name of it. In his letters. Because of course he would never call it that without telling you first, would he, without your by-your-leave? I’m sure you’ve seen the playbill. He probably sent you one. Everyone in town is talking about it. My cousin, who came back from London
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