Lucy knocked again. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. ‘Good. 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. Thank you for walking me home the other day. Mrs. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris.
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