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. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. When she tried to speak she found it difficult. She pulled her chair with a mild creak and marched towards the stair. " "Are you sure of that," inquired Jackson. He shuddered. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said.
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