Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something. Let me see now. ” “But how can I help it? How can I keep silence?” “Please!” she insisted. She became more assertive, more defiant. 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 always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. She refrained.
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