She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. “It’s like the Picture and the Bust. I fought. Though he never seen so much of Miss Mary as I did. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. Great vistas of history opened, and she and her aunt were near reverting to the primitive and passionate and entirely indecorous arboreal—were swinging from branches by the arms, and really going on quite dreadfully—when their arrival at the Palsworthys’ happily checked this play of fancy, and brought Ann Veronica back to the exigencies of the wrappered life again. ‘And so also have I.
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