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. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. He stared at her breasts while he touched them. Berserker, Spurlock rose, head down, and charged. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. . He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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