But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. I want to give you time to think. 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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