In all these weeks she had not once knelt to pray. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. I don’t love you. My mother shall never degrade herself by a connection with you. 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. Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears.
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