I ought never to have thought of it. He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. Goodbye. 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. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. It is to set me right with Winifred.
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