” He left her where she was, crying in the doorway. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu. 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. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. And girls and women, perhaps, are different. ‘You wish to tell me something? Parbleu, I have nearly forgot once more. .
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