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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. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. I don’t think of you as a kid. And me, I know very much of soldiers. Love…. There was a maiden aunt who lived in the North who might let her live there for a few weeks until she disappeared. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes.
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