She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. “I wouldn’t. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. She rose briskly, turned on the light, and opened Les Misérables to the episode of the dark forest: where Jean Valjean reaches out and takes Cosette's frightful pail from her chapped little hands. She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber. . 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. He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table. .
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