“I knew Miss Pellissier in Paris at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ and I know her now, but I am convinced that there is some mystery in connexion with her change of life. 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. You don’t know. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. Most subjects of any depth were taboo between them, especially when they were in his convertible. "Heed her not.
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