He patted the hand on his sleeve. 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 smile had become a laugh. ‘To what do you go, mademoiselle? The life of a nun in a convent, in a country where nuns are unwelcome. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Only I do not care to write about anything else.
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