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. That's the only fault I know of. Part 4 MY DEAR VEE, he wrote. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows.
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