Her mind had been and was full of the thought of Capes, a huge generalized Capes-lover. "Do you call this frantic glee happiness?" "It's all the happiness I have known for years," returned the widow, becoming suddenly calm, "and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive. It is a matter of degree. Understand once and for all that that answer is final. It’s just life, pure life, life nascent, running clear and strong. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. I cannot do it, David. I dared not sing, I dared not laugh, except when you went away. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say.
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