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. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. It’s a damned hard thing to do. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph.
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