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. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. I'll call it my wedding gift. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust. But his lips were honourlocked. .
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