\" Lucy winced. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. 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. Here, Caliban, attend to the door, and keep the wicket locked till I return. It was not a hard face, but it was resolute. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. It slid off flimsily. .
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