” He rose from his chair, and walked restlessly up and down the room. More often then not he refused to reveal specifics of his own past in Greece and Rome, choosing to relate fables and stories of an impersonal nature. But he only went home again to Paddington. It slipped out—as did that “she”. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. 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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