An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. 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. When the doctor came in—he had just finished his breakfast—O'Higgins rose and presented his card. Wood's astonishment and displeasure momentarily increased. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’.
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