“What else was I to do?” For some seconds she stood watching him and both were thinking very quickly. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. ‘As I have said, it was a quarrel between the vicomte and Monsieur Charvill. The storm burst upon them in its fury. Thank him, not me, man. I must have something in hand. 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.
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