Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon, books. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. And for my part, if I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene. 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. Cut it as short as you can. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back.
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