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. “That doesn’t touch the question I asked you,” she said. Mrs. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. I am not come here to play the part of your father-confessor.
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