That is good. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. 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. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. ” “I can’t be portentous, dear, when you’re about.
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