“You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. "It is too late. Besides, you cannot tell where it will end. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. ” “I hope that you may,” Anna answered enigmatically. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. . “I do not understand. 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. Does it?” “I think it does. I am no use for a clerk, because I do not understand shorthand.
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