‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. 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. Marvel, therefore, remained on his probation. “Once or twice.
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