I’m not ashamed—of the things I’m doing. “I wonder which of us enjoys that most,” said Capes—“does he, or do we?” “He seems to get a zest—” “He does it and forgets it. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. I love my husband. We are amiable to one another, but we don’t mix. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation.
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