The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. 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. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. Because of the Dance. You aren’t afraid of thunder, are you?” He asked.
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