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. She wanted to think. ’ Lucilla gaped. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. Wood; "I can't for an instant question such distinterested testimony. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. You need only answer me truthfully and you have nothing to fear. I'll tell you what. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock.
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