When they reached the door, he kissed her 246 again. 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. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. "An oath weighs little with me, compared with your safety.
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