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 fell back in his chair with an expression of tremendous desolation. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her. " "It's Jonathan Wild," returned the widow, endeavouring to alarm him. People who would not go. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers.
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