Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. “I was frightened then,” she declared. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. 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.
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