She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. 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. ‘En tout cas, it is not up at all, but down. Hang it, there must be something about her that will give it away. “I wonder if it is. ” He stood up and waited for her to move. Your life is like a funeral March. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. See paragraph 1. At length, he fell down on the road, fully expecting each moment would prove his last.
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