She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. It was painful to want him so much. 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. "I cannot climb the boat. ” “Of course you’re converted?” she said. Silly woman!. I have said good-bye to it all. I am a murderer.
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