There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. I stole away and walked to the railway station. 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. She was consumed by misery and hate. Like carpenter, like chips. “Well?” “I don’t care a rap for all these things.
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