Gibson's drawings--perhaps it is entirely confined to
them--except in this one very rare case.
Sacharissa's eyes fell.
Another unusual circumstance was engaging her attention, namely, that his
rather remarkable physical perfection appeared to be matched by a
breeding quite as faultless, and a sublimity of courage in the face of
destruction itself, which----
Sacharissa lifted her gray eyes.
There he stood, suspended over an abyss, smoking a cigarette, bravely
forcing himself to an attitude of serene insouciance, while the basement
yawned for him! Machine or no machine, how could any girl look upon such
miraculous self-control unmoved? _She_ could not. It was natural that a
woman should be deeply thrilled by such a spectacle--and William Destyn's
machine had nothing to do with it--not a thing! Neither had psychology,
nor demonology, nor anything, with wires or wireless. She liked him,
frankly. Who wouldn't? She feared for him, desperately. Who wouldn't?
She----
"C-r-rack!"
"Oh--_what_ is it!" she cried, springing to the grille.
"I don't know," he said, somewhat pale. "The old thing seems--to be
sliding."
"Giving way!"
"A--little--I think----"
"Mr. Vanderdynk! I _must_ call the police----"
"Cr-rackle--crack-k-k!" went the car, dropping an inch or two.
With a stifled cry she caught his hands through the bars, as though to
hold him by main strength.
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