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. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. Wild, Captain?" remonstrated the other, in a deferential tone. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. Thing's upset you a bit. She can't last long. “Please not now. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands.
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