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. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. " A detective. Giles's round-house," answered Terence; "but tell Mr. ‘She would not tell me. ’ ‘He did, you know,’ grinned Gerald.
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