Hugging him in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was strangely soothing to her. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. He waited the pleasure of Monsieur. 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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