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 came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. Anna passed serenely out. Spurling," rejoined Ireton; "we can taste the rum when he returns.
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