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. I want to go to that because it’s a new experience, because I think it will be interesting and give me a view of things. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. “I do love you. It is good sometimes to walk with a man who can look God squarely in the face, as you can. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said. "Good gracious! so I do," exclaimed his amiable consort. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. You care for me just a little, I know. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. CHAPTER XVI.
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