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. The eggs were all right, but nobody in this part of the world had the least conception of what the coffee bean was for. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. “Why not? It might amuse me.
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