It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. “I want to ask you a question,” he said. 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 looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. “Damned Rascal!” he said. His idea was to get behind this sustained listlessness. And now Ann Veronica’s evenings were also becoming very busy.
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