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Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. Wood," she continued, with a sudden change of tone, and convulsively clutching the carpenter's arm, "promise it me. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. 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.
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