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. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. “I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn’t wait. For a time she furnished the flat. She went further: she doubted that he was fully conscious of where he was.
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