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. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. Books; an inexplicable hunger to be satisfied. But this I cannot do. The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. She is no more English than that set of beggars over there.
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