Enjoy. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Jack affected to close the door, but left it slightly ajar. 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. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. The elements were wrathful as their passions.
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