‘Don’t tell me. 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. It was 1582. She tried not to pant, not to reveal herself, and she began to shake. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone.
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