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. I believe I have always been in love with you. “What are you doing?” He cried. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient.
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