“Where have you been? All these hours I have been calling for you. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. Leastways, not on your own. 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. He was confounded by the presence in which he found himself.
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