More than ever Sir John was glad that he had sat down. 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. “It’s magnificent!” He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work.
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