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. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. ” “I suppose we are,” said Vee, rearranging the flowers in her hand.
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