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. "Hear! hear!" vociferated Quilt. Her lips were dry and cracked. Bodies were piled high in the streets, Sebastian went on rounds and would come back late at night, reporting horrors and robberies, death that came within hours, not days. It was the beginning of June. I didn’t understand. I guess we could go for a ride.
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