” Lucy instructed. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. He rose, steadied himself, then walked out of the dining room. 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. It’s time she knew.
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