But those days are over—quite over. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. He went on with intense urgency. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. 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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