It was a habit of his to talk to himself. Then he paused. 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. “It may not be just and so forth, but, after all, it is how things are. “You’ve been sneaking out just as often as Mary Lucia. " Some order.
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