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. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens.
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