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. ” “But Italy—” “Italy’s for a good girl,” he said, and laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep.
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