She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Capes had the gift of easy, unaffected writing, coupled with very clear and logical thinking, and to follow his written thought gave her the sensation of cutting things with a perfectly new, perfectly sharp knife. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. ‘It could not be helped, whichever way I made my presence known.
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