He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck. Sheppard, anxiously. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. 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.
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