Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. “My darling!” he said, clasping her resolutely in his arms, “my dearest!” “Mr. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will. 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. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica.
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