“I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. 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. Better come another morning. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. “To be my eternal love.
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