The air became hot and swollen with June humidity. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. 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. “We have to be— modern. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray.
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