“I am so sorry. "Where?" she cried. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again. 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.
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