The thought of Capes flooded her being like long-veiled sunlight breaking again through clouds. . That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. I thought that you were he. It is of no use. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. .
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