Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Saint Giles's Round-house XIII. 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 was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. Then most horribly she was clasped about the waist from behind and lifted from the ground.
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