“But how can you?” asked Constance. 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 was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. ’ ‘But you are bleeding like a pig,’ came the frantic response.
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