Earles said, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, “forty at the ‘Unusual,’ two turns, encores voluntary, six for matinées. He moaned in excitement as his lips wrapped around the peak of her right breast. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. 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.
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