It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. 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. “I have come for an explanation,” she said. You need not be afraid. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. "It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. He moved her dress from her shoulders and off her torso.
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