“Just think about what you are asking, John, please. And Pottiswick, of course. ” Lucy commented as the mud was smoothed around the grave site. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. 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 rest was easy. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. .
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