“And what will Mr. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. She looked at him curiously. 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. I won't keep you long. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. The particulars of her engagement were very clear in her memory. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing. Besides, you cannot tell where it will end. Send for Mr. . .
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