He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. 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. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. Sheppard in a troubled voice, "that if I lost my child, I should lose all I have left in the world. " The doctor was in the middle fifties, gray and careworn, but with alert blue eyes and a gentle mouth.
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