You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. 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. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Anna saw it, and for the first time found herself trembling. Anna lied to you, I lied to you. Skiing trip. She ran through the backyards of Pinecrest subdivision, piano wire and a slim jim tucked into her pantyhose. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet.
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