"Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to 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. “Cut her throat!” Sebastian snapped. “That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Only a son’s another story. ’ The lady uttered a scornful sound.
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