Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. “Sometimes it is not bad. "Let us sit here," she said, indicating the white sand bordering the lagoon; "and in a minute or two you will see something quite wonderful.
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