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. There’s no logic in these things. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Hang it, there must be something about her that will give it away. She was surprised at his modesty.
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