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. On the way he confessed. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. Spurling.
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