Probably he taught me what a joke was merely to irritate my father; for suddenly Father stopped my going to the store for things and sent our old Kanaka cook instead. 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. She silently willed him to stop his pacing, to calm down. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. “Damned Rascal!” he said. She stood there limply and did not act to resist him.
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