He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes. “I’m sorry Lucy! I’m sorry to Mike too! You were right, we’re a mismatch! I just don’t want to be lonely!” Lucy hugged Michelle. “I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed. 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.
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