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 was after all a momentary affair. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. She felt the softest touch caress her cheek, and a wave of tenderness engulfed Melusine.
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