No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. “You’re so unbelievably beautiful, Lucy. The marriage cannot—shall not be delayed. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. 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. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. How many ends had he? Well, she must cease to trouble herself for this imbecile, whom it would give her very much pleasure to shoot.
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