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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. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. Manning,” she began. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one.
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