Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. 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. Moments, indeed! We like each other fresh and fresh. One little minute with soap and water, voilà tout.
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