Here I am. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. A hansom stopped a little way off. 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. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. It is absolutely a frightful neighbourhood, this. "If I get free, I'll have a bout with you at all weapons. Her anger died and she eyed him.
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