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. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. “Sold again,” she remarked. "What's the matter?" he cried. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs.
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