He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ protested Hilary angrily. ” Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. What with these converging roofs that shut out all but a hand's breadth of the sky, sunshine was rare at this point. She was pensive and thoughtful. “I don’t think she will,” she said. “Ask me nothing. He stood before her.
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