"I had to give in to him. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. ’ At last. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. 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. Wild here presently. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. Everything in the world to live for!—fame that he could not reap, love that he must not take! What was all this pother about hell as a future state? By and by things began to stir on the table: little invisible things. He was daring enough to have seized and carried him off before the whole congregation, but he preferred waiting.
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