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She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. “Me and my bright ideas. His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. 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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