The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. 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. Do you think that it makes for happiness to force oneself into the extravagant belief that love is the only thing in the world worth having, and to sacrifice for it independence, self-respect, one’s whole scheme of life. His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain.
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