“I was watching you at Morningside Park, dear,” said Miss Miniver. He saw now that it was merely a boy. She was unusually helpful at breakfast, and unselfish about the eggs: and then she went off to catch the train before her father’s. 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. It reminded Ann Veronica of having a tooth stopped. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt.
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