58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. 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. ‘But that is excessively unkind of you, Melusine. ’ Pottiswick sucked at his teeth through the gaps. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk.
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