She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. " "Thank'ee,—thank'ee. This—all this swamps them. 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. White?” she asked, laughing. Then, in a few years, he and Ruth might fare forth in comfort and security.
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