But we must not anticipate the course of events. I feel years younger, a man again. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. 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. To have the present lengthen into years! But in a few hours she would be upon her way, far lonelier than she had ever been. ” The tired woman sat still for a moment. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow.
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