She was surprised and stared at him when he did not immediately leave the bed as Gianfrancesco always did, but instead rested on his elbows. Gerald shook his head. “So what is John up to today?” Lucy asked with a weary smile. 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. Many’s the bullets I’ve dug out of fellows in my time. As to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you do go I shall need no memorial of you.
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