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. Spurling. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. "That depends upon you. The burden of decision had been transferred. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. " He held out his dry hard hand into which she placed hers. She was for ever scanning luggage and finding her way about the world, via these miniature pictures.
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