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. “No,” she answered. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor. “You know I’m old-fashioned, Miss Stanley. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers.
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