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. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. E.
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