Before that came your father didn’t even know you were gone. . . But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it. 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. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.
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