The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent. I'll tell you what. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. He had scarcely entered the arch, when the indraught was so violent, and the noise of the wind so dreadful and astounding, that he almost determined to relinquish the undertaking. He is an awfully good sort— and now he has come to me to help him if I can.
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