It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. 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. Perhaps that was why Sheila began to observe Lucy, because both of them were poignantly aware of Lucy’s otherness.
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