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. ’ ‘I had never the intention to tell you anything, pig!’ Gosse moved forward a little. Stanley. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. ‘That was one of my own clever stories. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. Hollo rumbled in his throat. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. “Get you a cold one?” “No thanks.
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