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. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind.
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