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. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. She felt draggled and insulted beyond redemption. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. “Your home is very. Kneebone,—pray go!" implored Winifred.
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