Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed 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. Anyhow he confessed that he was a fraud. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. “I am going to fetch some things that will be wanted if he pulls through the next hour. It was perfectly legitimate.
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