The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. The pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth. “Until you marry, Vee,” said Hetty. “My God!” and ceased to move. . I don’t think we’re altogether to blame if we don’t take some of your lot seriously. 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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