Sebastianus began performing Marina’s last rites. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. 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. This is altogether insupportable. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers.
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