God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. He guided himself between her legs. He pumped as she raised her legs obediently. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. 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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