Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. 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.
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