I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball. As sure as you're sitting there, Mr. “This is wonderful! I’ve been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Ruth loved him. The blood will rest on your head. 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. And nothing to tell her where to begin.
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