“It was a phase,” she said. Which, let me assure you, villain, will not be so far away. Two women entered and sat down at the adjoining table. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. She turned to face him and he kissed her. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created.
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