It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. 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. Anna left the room on tiptoe. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. Let me engage myself. ” He was dismissed, and he understood it. That was what she was trying to make him understand.
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