One side of the face was white with foamy lather and the other ruddy-cheeked and blue-jawed. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. 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. “As I have explained many a time, Lucia, the maladies of the blood and flesh do not afflict us.
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