Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. 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. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. ‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began.
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