The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. 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. Of you—an angel with one wing. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style.
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