Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. 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. All at once Melusine remembered Pottiswick, and the errand he had run.
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