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. For a time Ann Veronica’s attention was diverted by her aunt’s interest in the salted almonds. Hitherto, no visiters had been permitted to see him. One who—who—tres.
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