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. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. There are sing-song girls in Hong-Kong and Shanghai who are famous and wealthy. This isn’t the place.
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