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 jailers robbed the prisoners: the prisoners robbed one another. And, while the turnkey was busy with the keys, she whispered to the black, "Follow him, Caliban. What he told the vicomte I was not privileged to learn. ” Her hand hung over the side of her chair nearest to him.
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