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. “What can I do?” “Go and see her. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. Wood, I forget nothing. ‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so.
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