’ So pat, thought Gerald. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. 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. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one.
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