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. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. I ought to have gone long ago.
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