There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. 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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