” Annabel saw Ennison first, and noticing his single companion calmly ignored him. In his way he was critical. Every other wall comprised bookcases, except where the doors appeared. She was beautiful once, Lucia. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. 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.
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