Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. ‘I do not remember the name,’ Melusine said, turning to Mrs Ibstock. 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. ’ Her eyes narrowed.
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