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. Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. Upon leaning back, he commented, “You look so sad. “I’m covered. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. ” She pressed her ear to the door. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. . .
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