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. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. "Owen, Owen," pursued Mrs. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. He knocked on the doorframe. “Maybe I should have stayed home.
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