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 young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. ‘All right, Trodger. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. ’ A laugh escaped her. That, I think, is manifest.
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