"To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. You won't refuse me, I'm sure; so no more need be said about the matter. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. 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 was very excited.
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