In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. "Have a little patience, Sir," rejoined the jailer. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. 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. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight.
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