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. Blueskin answered by dashing his head violently against the flagged floor. Can it ever be so good again?” Ann Veronica put out a firm hand and squeezed his arm.
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