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. “Let us put the lamp out,” she said; “the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and Ann Veronica agreed. Michelle pulled a Kleenex out of a Pocket Pack and blew her nose. Ramage stood up, and suddenly turned the key in the door in an off-hand manner. His face clouded with anger. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. The small predator subconsciously acknowledged the larger one.
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