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For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. “I think,” he said, “that some one ought to warn her. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. 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. Wild.
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