Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. ‘I see that Leonardo was right. Wood caught hold of Jack's leg, and dragged him off the bench. “Anna!” she repeated. " "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued. She did not realize that she was offering criticisms. 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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