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. Darrell attempted to reply. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood on it.
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