‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. He slackened his pace as he reached the flat. I'll be wanting my sixteen thousand. 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. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her.
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