But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. She was the High Priestess. We tolerate you for your genius, that's a fact. We have that gift. 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. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. There was a little pain, but it wasn’t anything.
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