‘Not if I heard him aright. It was the girl. 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. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. I'll do anything in reason for you, old top; but no pig in a poke. ‘You would say that already then you love me?’ His glance was a caress and Melusine’s resolve weakened. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train.
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