But he did not follow on with the thought. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. 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. Now, I'll be getting along.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 30-09-2024 10:26:36