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. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. ‘Lawks-a-mussy! It’s Miss Mary.
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