She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. 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. Her father had determined on a new line. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. How would he act when he learned that it had vanished? She gathered up the manuscripts and restored them to the envelope. The Old Mint. He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office. ” A bureaucratic three hours later, the paperwork was finished.
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