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. I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I please. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, after a long interval, “if they are absurd. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams.
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