’ A giggle answered him. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. didn’t have to. “Stop,” he said. 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.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 08-09-2024 14:14:26
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