Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. She dismissed the idea of doing so. 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. The fever came. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. “Is it okay if I go to the Junior Prom with John Diedermayer?” She asked Cathy in a low voice. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously.
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