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. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. With an open hand, he slapped her face. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Ramage did not know.
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