It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. I’ll mention it. 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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