She kept pausing in her work and regarding it, and when Capes came round to her, she first put her hand in her lap and then rather awkwardly in front of him. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Capes was irritatingly judicial in the matter, neither absurdly against, in which case one might have smashed him, or hopelessly undecided, but tepidly sceptical. Instead, her husband was probably wise. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud.
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