“Will you tell Sydney that I will see him in the morning,” he said. 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. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. After occupying himself thus for the best part of an hour, he thought Jack must have given him the slip.
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