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She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. I don’t believe any one could have traced us here. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. 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 could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other.
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