He slackened his pace as he reached the flat. He did not move. Lucy stood relieved that she had not messed up the solo. It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. 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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