‘It did not seem to me that it was so. I hate what I am. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. 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. “Hey John, how’s it going?” “Hey Michelle. I found the door locked as usual, but when we entered this room everything was as you see.
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