” “You can’t be that,” said Ann Veronica, wisely. Hold your hand for a moment. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. 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.
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