"It's a
good many days since I've heard from Portia." And then, suddenly, "Was
it because anything had gone wrong that you came?"
"I didn't know you were here until I saw you on the stage."
This was all, in words, that passed until they reached the bridge. But
there needed no words to draw up, tighter and tighter between them, a
singing wire of memories and associations; there was no need, even, of a
prolonged contact between their bodies. He had let go her arm when they
came out of the alley, and they walked the half-mile to the bridge side
by side and in step, and except for an occasional brush of her shoulder
against his arm, without touching.
But the Clark Street bridge, with a February gale blowing from the west
down the straight reach of the river, is not to be negotiated lightly.
Strong as they were, the force of the wind actually stopped them at the
edge of the draw, caught Rose a little off her balance, turned her half
around and pressed her up against him.
She made an odd noise in her throat, a gasp that had something of a sob
in it, and something of a laugh.
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