" "Oh!" exclaimed the widow, covering her face with her hands. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. 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. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. ’ ‘Gammon,’ interrupted Hilary scornfully. ‘I doubt very much whether they are yours at all. And here are these places, full of contagion! “Of course, this is the real texture of life, this is what we refined secure people forget. “I’ve brought you up some dinner, Vee,” she said. .
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