Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban. 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. He noted an ebony cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. “It isn’t objections exactly. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone.
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