He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. 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. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. A woman isn’t much freer—in reality.
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