‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. He refused. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. ‘You were right, miss. 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. ’ He gave the gaping Pottiswick a shove, passing him on to his junior, who was waiting patiently by the kitchen door.
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