There was something very wrong. ” “What case?” “A divorce—or something—I don’t know. What was to happen now? She turned to Roding quickly. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. 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. It brought no coconut.
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