And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. 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. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. She did not have to investigate that his door was locked.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 10-09-2024 04:40:18
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