And Capes was thinking that his wife was a supremely beautiful woman. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. I wanted you to know. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. “I think,” he said, “that some one ought to warn her. Constantly sick with the croup or diaper rash. .
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