He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. 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. She tried not to notice how much attention Martin Chen had been paying her, but he had been bold enough to speak to her the other day. That might happen on her birthday—in August. ‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine.
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