She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. 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. She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her.
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