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. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. . Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Her head rose. An action which gave Gerald furiously to think.
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