’ Gerald eyed her. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. Loved his memory still, for all he knew. It's of no use. Better check on Remenham House, I suppose. 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 she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders.
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