Still no sound. 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. You need have no apprehensions about him, Sir Rowland. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. "Yes; I speak English. I'm told he's so handsome.
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