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. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ’ The girl glanced up the road and turned back, annoyance in her face. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him.
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