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 pushed him gently on the chest. “You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. There was Major Price—you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,—he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. Wood was not particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections.