” He nodded. . 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 he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened. You aren’t afraid of thunder, are you?” He asked.
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