“You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. 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. “With your permission,” he said to Anna, “I shall arrange a bed for him where he is.
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