The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. 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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