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. ’ ‘And I love the way you call me imbecile,’ finished Gerald. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted.
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