Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet. “I have been bearing this—for your sake. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. 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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