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. It’s the sort of way a woman always does gloss over her ethical positions. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. ‘We needn’t murder Lucia. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. I cannot live without you, Anna.
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