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 the devil are you howling about?" cried Langley. ” “You do not deny that you are my wife,” he asked hoarsely. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking.
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