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. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. He then scaled the northern tower, and made his way to the summit of that part of the prison which fronted Giltspur Street. "At all hazards then then you shall know the truth," replied the woollen-draper, in a tone of affected solicitude,—"but are you really prepared?" "Quite—quite!" replied Winifred. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates.
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