265 The madness crept around her like smoke under a door. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. Then Sheila noticed the stains. She had lost it. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. Life is so 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.
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