‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. ” He uttered thoughtfully. 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 had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance.
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