I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. Only I do not care to write about anything else. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another.
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