But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. Courtlaw opened his lips, but remained silent in the face of her imperative gesture. Petite build, like herself. Sheppard. Ann Veronica decided to be more explicit. 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. Several men and women were piled there like wood, dead, horribly gored. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so.
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