He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. “It’s the spring,” he said. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned.
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