Spurlock halted in his tracks. "What has happened?" Ruth asked. What'syour-name!" "Charcam," replied the attendant, bowing. 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. “There are a good many Whites in London.
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