I can’t stand it. I do swear. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. 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. " "I ondershtand," replied the skipper, putting his finger to his nose; "it shall be done.
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