"What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. I saw him first a few months ago at Mrs. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. 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. I'll speak to McClintock to-night and see if he won't take us for a junket on The Tigress. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence whatever, till I call.
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