Creative work appeals to me wonderfully. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. 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.
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