The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. Then Anna spoke more seriously than usual. She went to market every day to fetch the daily bread and more herbs for more medicines and potions, plus treats for the apprentices made of honey and almond paste. “Sure, I guess so. The thought of Capes flooded her being like long-veiled sunlight breaking again through clouds. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked. I don’t think any surroundings could throw a shadow on you.
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