CHAPTER IX. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. ‘Precisely. The latter walked carelessly towards the hatch, and leaning his back against the place whence the spike had been removed, so as completely to hide it, continued smoking his pipe as coolly as if nothing had happened. 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. Of course I knew all about him years ago, and he is exactly like everybody’s description of him. A tall, clean-shaven man came out and walked rapidly through the room, exchanging greetings right and left, but evidently anxious to avoid being detained.
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