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. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. Winny, my love, come with me. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. Her soft brown eyes, inherited from Larry, warmed an already pretty face. .
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